


The Reason for Living

by AvaFyre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hogwarts Era, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 67,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaFyre/pseuds/AvaFyre
Summary: Life has always been a dull game for Cyrna Raine. Emotionally flawed, she struggles to connect with the world, so when death seemingly approaches, she accepts it with open arms.But that is not to be, for by some twisted fate, she receives a second chance to live.The first few years are largely driven by adventure while the last years are driven by the developing relationship between SS/OC (romance).





	1. The Game Called Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is an eventual SS/OC. The first 3 chapters focuses on the OC; The content from _The Philosopher's Stone_ starts at around chapter 6/7.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Prologue**

The last things I remembered were the blinding headlights of a car, the screeching of tires as it attempted to halt, then finally, a moment of excruciating pain.

People say that you reminisce in your final moments of life. I found that to be untrue, but then again, I didn’t have the luxury of time to do so. I had no issues with that, after all, I had always believed that a swift death was the best way to die.

Morbid, I know, but when you live in a world of relentless repetition where everyone seems programmed to do the same sort of thing—do well in school, go to college, get a job, earn money, settle down and start a family—life becomes dull, dull enough to contemplate about the twisted game called “life” where hard work means nothing in the face of true genius and where some people’s efforts are rewarded while others’ efforts are ignored.

 _Life is not fair_. A statement I found to be very true when I saw my friend, who had worked much harder and much more passionately, fail at an exam that I had passed with relatively little studying. Then again, there were always those one or two students who seemed to excel without needing to open their textbooks during their whole college life—a feat that I could never dream of accomplishing.

Intelligence, success, good relationships, and a happy family. One would say that I should want for nothing more. But I did.

The intelligence that had established a road for a successful future, friends who would lend a helping hand whenever I was in difficulty, a family that always stood by me… still I don’t think I could say that I was happy.

… and now when I think about it…

Perhaps Life, in its own twisted way, _was fair_.

I wasn’t an emotionless person. It was just that I simply lacked the basic sympathy required for a human to be normal. Of course, I never acted coldly towards other people, but that was because I was able to reason out how I should act in certain circumstances.

A comforting touch on the arm at times of distress. A hug. A gentle pat on the back when the person was sad. A smile. Offering to help whenever your friend was in trouble. Saying caring words…

There is a list of things that I could go on and on about the actions that I had mastered in order to blend in with society. _Mastered, but never felt_.

And suffice to say, the issue with a lack of sympathy is that it isolates you.

Not physically. But emotionally.

I think I could have owned the world, and still I would not have been happy. There was only so much joy that material objects could give to me; without sympathy, I could form no bonds with others—I simply had no attachment to the world.

And so I went on with my life. Days turned to years as they blurred together, and somewhere along the line, I realized that while I _existed_ , I had stopped _living_. The days started and ended like clockwork and life became a dull, tedious game I was forced to partake in. I never thought of ending it, but I did question the reason of my existence. So, I can honestly say that it was with great relief when I felt darkness settle into my vision as I relaxed and prepared myself for the embrace of death.

 

That embrace never came.

 

 

**Chapter 1: The Game Called Life**

The sounds of a nearby trickling stream and the soft melodic trills of birds could be heard. The gentle breeze rustling through the woods and the morning rays creating pools of light on the leaves-covered ground gave an ephemeral air to the forest. Many villagers who lived near here had always claimed that there was something _magical_ about it—and they were not wrong. For there was indeed magic at play.

However, on this seemingly peaceful summer day, the beauty of the forest was marred by the broken, emaciated form of what should have been a fair-skinned child. The child’s body was mottled with bruises and her raven-coloured hair, filthy and disheveled, hid her face.

 

More important was that she had been dead, at least until a few moments ago.

               

Suddenly the child’s chest lifted, and the rasping sound of pained breathing could be heard. Agony was the first thing that was apparent, next came an influx of the child’s memories into the new soul that now inhabited the body.

 

*****

 

Cyrna Raine believed that while she was perhaps not a good human being, she had done nothing to deserve this torment that she was currently experiencing. Despite being unable to care, she had acted as if she did. She treated people kindly and returned help to those who had helped her before. But above all, she had _tried_ to sympathize. In fact, it was one of her sudden ideas to learn sympathy that led her to what was now her second year of medical school.

Through the haze of pain, she remembered that she had been walking back to her apartment after a late night at the college library when a driver, probably drunk, had crashed into her. She winced, recalling the impact of her head to the hard asphalt road; so what, she puzzled, was she doing lying on the ground that smelt of fresh soil and decaying leaves?

She gave up her ponderings when a sudden massive headache attacked her. Images, she believed to be memories, flickered through her mind like a film in fast-forward. There she saw a man that she somehow knew to be the father of the person whose memories she was experiencing; she saw a beautiful blonde-haired woman with strange elf-like ears that she knew to be the mother.

She saw a dim-lit room that appeared in the majority of the memories.

She felt the person’s strange craving for sounds—even cackling, jeering, as long as it wasn’t the oppressive silence that usually reigned.

She felt the hope when she saw the light, only for it to turn into absolute terror when the people, who she recognized to be the parents, fell upon her viciously until pain was all she felt.

Well, more accurately, they were doing this to the person to which these memories pertained to. However, all that mattered right now was that Cyrna was feeling and living out these horrid memories.

Unable to cope with such extreme mental, physical, and emotional pain, her mind began to shut down. A faint “pop” and a sharp intake of breath was heard just before she gave in to oblivion.

 

*********

               

“… but how do you know that she isn’t dangerous? We both know that neither humans nor wizards, besides the select few, can enter the forest…”        

“…black hair…”

Hushed murmurings were heard as Cyrna slowly drifted back into consciousness. Immediately, she noted that her body was in significantly less pain than it had been in before. The ground she was lying on also felt a lot softer…

It was tempting to just go back to sleep.

“Nicolas! Did you see the state she was in!?” a woman shrieked, “NO MATTER WHAT, I WILL NOT SEND HER BACK!”

Cyrna’s eyes flew open as the volume assaulted her ears, leaving her with a mild headache, and all thoughts of remaining asleep left abruptly. She quickly looked around, and immediately she realized that she was most definitely not in her bedroom or in the hospital.

She was on a bed. There was a fireplace. There were tons, and tons of bookshelves storing not only books but also jars filled with strange things—

 

_—Were those eyeballs?_

 

 _‘_ _Don’t think too much of it_ ,’ Cyrna thought to herself. After all, she did know a couple of friends who had to bring eyeballs home for some sort of strange biochemistry experiment.

Then she saw a cauldron. The medieval sort.

She tried to reason that away as well.

But what she _couldn’t_ ignore though were the floating books.

As one who heavily relied on logic rather than emotional impulse, she could not seem to fit “ _floating books_ ” into any of the schemas in her mind; so, she did what any reasonable human would do in her situation.

She panicked.

Immediately, she tried to get out of bed, but strangely enough, the bedsheets seemed to be tying her down. She struggled for a bit longer before she grew frustrated and decided to force her way out.

Suddenly, the restraints that had seemed to be holding her loosened, and she tumbled out of bed, entangled with the clean white sheets.

Cyrna winced when she heard the loud _thump_ that had echoed in the small room from her fall, and she stilled once silence had settled in. Evidently, the attention of the two arguing strangers was now trained on her.

Oh, she knew that they were probably not going to harm her; after all, she had heard what the woman had said. If that was their desire, they would have left her for dead in the forest.

But at the same time, the only thought she could coherently run through her mind was, “Where the _hell_ am I?”

In her panic, she must have voiced her thoughts out loud, because a male voice responded in a clipped tone, “You are with the Flamels.”

“Yes, dear, we found you heavily injured in the Elven Forest, so we brought you back with us,” said the woman who seemed to have been the one shrieking previously. “Though I don’t know how you got into the fo—”

That was as far as she got before she was cut off by the male speaker.

“How _did_ you get into the Forest?” he barked. “The elves would never allow a common human or witch like you to enter. So, what are you?”

 _What_ am I?

Cyrna thought for a while before the strange memories flooded her mind again.

“No, I believe the question you should be asking is ‘ _who_ am I?’,” she murmured as she dazedly stood up from the floor. More than preoccupied with her thoughts, she missed the glances exchanged between the Flamels. One concerned, the other suspicious.

“Very well then,” said the man in a sardonic tone, “Who are you?”

Snapped out of her thoughts by the question, Cyrna could only stare at the strange elderly man in bewilderment for she did not know the definite answer.

“Great. Now she’s mute,” he growled.

The female spun around to face who Cyrna assumed to be her husband. “Nicolas!” she scolded in a voice filled with displeasure.

"Perenelle, this entire thing is just suspicious! You know as well as I do that only creatures should exist in that forest. You know how the elves are like with their secrecy!"

"Perhaps she's—"

"—Most definitely not an elf. Elves are characterized by their beauty, their ears, and their golden hair—look at her!" he gestured wildly, "Her hair is the exact opposite. It's pitch black!"

 

Cyrna frowned. What he said about her hair troubled her. She was sure that she was a _brunette_ …

 

A quick glance at the closest window pane answered her questions, though it had the unfortunate effect of creating a multitude of questions to replace the answered ones.

‘ _Since when was I this short?’_ Cyrna thought as her reflection barely made it halfway up the pane.

She definitely remembered towering above many of her other classmates with a height of 6’2 ft.

Many things could be said about Cyrna Raine, but unintelligent and slow were adjectives that had never been used to describe her. The simple reason, though illogical, was that her psyche had somehow ended up in the body of a child that lived in an alternate universe. She wanted to laugh hysterically at the hand that the game of life had dealt her.

Unfortunately, she realized any strange reactions from her would probably result in her getting kicked out immediately without gathering any sort of useful information that could be vital for survival in this new world.

She restrained herself and managed to gaze calmly at who she now knew to be Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. She studied them.

Perenelle had a kind face, one that you would be tempted to trust. Her gaze was warm with a hint of concern as she stared at Cyrna; her smile soft. She wore some sort of garment… a strange medieval looking dress… no… Cyrna decided as her gaze flicked towards Nicolas who wore a similar piece… a _robe_.

Nicolas was old, no, ancient, she corrected herself. His gaze narrowed suspiciously at her as she continued her observations. He wore a robe as well, but unlike Perenelle, his fingers seemed to have been stained permanently. From what, she could not guess. He had a hunched-back—much worse than Perenelle’s, so he must have spent an excessive amount of time doing something that required a decent amount of slouching or bending over.

Her eyes flickered towards the cauldron, then to the jars containing strange ingredients. The lack of electricity was apparent by the use of the fireplace and the many candles—which, like the books, were still _floating_.

A sickening, but this time, both logical and reasonable thought began to form: assuming this was not some messed up nightmare, if being reincarnated in a child’s dead body was possible, then _magic_ was most definitely plausible. In fact, Cyrna decided, the existence of magic was a more parsimonious explanation for the floating candles when compared to the alternative, which was probably some sort of localized, complex scientific phenomenon that she didn’t want to figure out right now.

And the words “Flammel” and “magic” triggered a fond childhood memory of hers.

 _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ had always been one of her favourite books in the series. It was light-hearted, innocent, and filled with adventures. While she had never been one to actively seek escapism, she did enjoy a solid fantasy novel. It was like a breath of fresh air to the dullness that was her life.

Still, she had never wanted to live in this world. _Never_. And if Life had decided to plop her anywhere from the First Wizarding War to the Second Wizarding War, she was completely and utterly fucked.

The last thing she wanted was to exist in the middle of a war between the light and dark forces...

But her mind had never misled her.

“You said that the elves valued their secrecy,” Cyrna began reluctantly, dreading the answer, “Yet, you have told me so much about them. What is there to prevent me from sharing?”

Perenelle and Nicolas gave her a slight look of confusion. Both thought how of how unnatural the words sounded flowing out from the mouth of a child who didn’t look a day past the age of ten.

“My dear—” Perenelle started as Nicolas simultaneously chirped, “We’ll _obliviate_ you. You won’t have to worry about what _obliviate_ means either, because you’ll soon forget this conversation too!”

Cyrna blanched. Having thought that Nicolas was like another Dumbledore—kind, gentle, somewhat manipulative, he definitely sounded way too excited to hex her.

Nevertheless, she had her answer. She was now very certain that she had somehow found her way into the Harry Potter Universe.

That left her other suspicion.  

Cyrna sighed. “Has _Headmaster_ Dumbledore contacted you yet?”

"No, the Headmaster has had no reason to seek me yet—" Nicolas gave her a wary glance. "He and I are good friends… do  _you_  know him?" he asked skeptically.

Dumbledore had not been the Headmaster during Riddle’s childhood, which meant she was anytime between the end of Grindelwald’s Reign to the start of the Hogwarts Era—

The Flamels _were_ alive.

Unfortunately, this also meant that Voldemort was either very much alive and causing chaos right now, or this was the calm before the storm otherwise known as Harry Potter’s life.

 

*****

 

Cyrna had _never_ viewed Life as a friend.

Now, she had to wonder what trespasses she had committed against it.

She didn’t want to be in this mess. It was last thing she wanted to do.

Who in their right mind would _want_ to be mixed up between Voldemort and whoever he was fighting against?

She should just attempt to leave Britain, and head to America…

…but she couldn’t. Not for a long time at least. She had no money and was probably—unless the minimum age to work had somehow changed significantly, too young to earn any.

The larger issue was that she was not even in her universe.

For the first time in many years, she felt a rush of fear and anger well up in her. She was trapped in another game Life had decided to play—but this time, a much more dangerous one. She would never see her parents, ‘friends’, or her dog again.

Embroiled in thoughts of self-pity and anger at the injustice of the situation, she failed to notice the magic swirling around her as silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

She failed to notice as the room filled with magic and continued to fill until the magic was almost palpable. She failed to notice the screaming for her to calm down.

 

_I’ll never see my family or colleagues again. My life, everything I know, is gone. My stability is gone. In a new world…I’m in a new game…I don’t know the rules—I don’t know what to expect. Is this my consequence of calling life dull?_

 

That inner monologue stopped when she heard the loud crackling sounds of the windows being shattered, and a thundering boom as the house was torn apart. All thoughts came to an abrupt halt, and incredulity overtook the feelings of anger:

She had done magic and had destroyed the house in the process.

            

But… _she had done magic_.

 

Giddy with excitement, she missed the softly spoken words of _stupefy_ and the red light heading her way.


	2. Her Promise and Her Second Chance

Half-conscious, Cyrna felt a hand roughly grab her forearm before she experienced the feeling of being forced through a rubber tube. If she was fully conscious, she was certain that she would have emptied her stomach. She let out a tiny sigh of regret: the books were unfortunately quite accurate in their descriptions of apparition.

Suddenly, the hand that held her was removed, and she fell on what she knew to be sand.

The peaceful sound of waves crashing towards the shores, and the sound of the seagulls cawing and wailing enveloped her she lay with her face flat on the ground.

 

“ _Rennervate_ ”

 

Cyrna leapt up from the ground and immediately spat out the unpalatable substance that coated her mouth in exchange for gasps of briny sea air. She looked around and saw the quaintest mansion sitting quite some distance away on the gentle rolling plains of grass that overlooked the large body of water behind her.

“Well come along now dear,” Perenelle cooed, “Let’s find a more comfortable place to finish our conversation. After all,” she chuckled, “you seem to have levelled our other house. This mansion we’ll be heading to is warded, so it should be able to sustain, let’s say, a bit more damage before it is destroyed.”

Cyrna flushed with mortification.

Perenelle offered her hand for the child to take. She understood why her husband was suspicious, of course, but at the same time, she didn’t sense anything inherently evil from this small child. _Strange_ , yes. But Evil?

 _Never_.

She glanced at the child again. The child was angular; most, if not all the bones were visible. Sunken cheeks. Long raven-coloured hair that was lacklustre, probably from years of malnourishment. White pasty skin which looked as if it had never seen the light of day was wrapped tightly around her slight frame. All in all, she was the literal definition of “skin and bones,” and if not for the fact that she stood upright in her own volition, she could have passed as a corpse.

Her eyes though, unlike the rest of her, were alive. The crystal blue eyes shone with intelligence as they watched her, contemplating her offer. How her husband missed those eyes, she was not certain. Perhaps it was the fault of the dim-lit potions room they had been nursing the child in, or perhaps it was their failing eyesight.

Nevertheless, in the light of day, those eyes were unmistakable.

Many people had blue eyes, but this shade of blue that caused the eyes to appear as if they were _crystals_ was a trait that belonged _only_ to the elves.

 

 _‘Perhaps she isn’t fully human,’_ Perenelle privately mused to herself.

 

*****

 

Cyrna glanced at the outstretched hand. ‘ _A symbol of trust_. _Should I take it_?’

She most certainly did not trust this woman that she had known for less than a day. She knew they were good people from the books, but that was all she had to go by. Then, she remembered how they had cared for her, however grudgingly in Nicolas’s case, and how she had repaid them by destroying their house.

She had done them an injustice.

This revelation brought her to her decision. She could not and would not repay their kindness with deceit.

 

_Cyrna laughed amusedly at a story a peer was sharing at the party when suddenly one of her friends came up and whispered to her that she was not feeling well and wanted to leave the party early. Though she had wanted to stay a bit longer, she decided that that wouldn’t have been a terribly caring thing to do, so she put her drink down, excused herself from the group she was chatting with, and drove her friend back to their apartment._

_Once there, her friend seemed to wallow in her sorrows, sniveling every so often, and making a great deal of noise that irritated Cyrna like nothing else could. She wanted to lock herself up in her room and use the night to study, but that wasn’t what a good friend would do… right? And so, she spent the next few hours soothing, and taking care of her friend while she cried to her about all her troubles in life, which frankly, she didn’t care to know._

_The next morning, her friend had woken up and had proclaimed that Cyrna was her best friend. She repeatedly thanked her for caring and sympathizing with her through her drunken breakdown when she had shared her personal stories with her last night._

_Not for the first time, Cyrna wondered if there was any difference between sympathy and acting in a caring manner, and if there was truly any difference between politeness and deceit._

 

To her, she found them to be startlingly similar, so though she could not return the compassion that the Flamels had bestowed on her with what they seemed to want in return, her trust, she made a vow to herself that she would always be honest with them.

Right now, she did not trust the Flamels, and she would not lie about it.

               

_They deserved better._

               

She smiled softly, ignored the offered hand, and started her uphill trek.

Moments later, two sets of footsteps could be heard behind her as the Flamels slowly made their way up to the mansion on the hill.

 

*****  

 

Cyrna sat on a chair in the guest room that overlooked the sea as she sipped some sort of drink that Perenelle had made for her to reintroduce food to her body.

To an observer, it would seem as if she was admiring the scenery from her window, but that was the farthest thing from her mind. Though she saw the sea, the view never registered, for she was thinking of many other things.

As soon as they had entered the mansion, Nicolas had wanted to interrogate her. she had had a vague idea that his desire to do so stemmed from his motive of wanting to be rid of her faster:

Interrogate, obliviate, then send her off on her merry way had probably been the plan.

The plan had failed, however, when Perenelle had arrived then and had promptly dragged her off for a grand tour of the mansion the moment Nicolas opened his mouth to speak. Coincidence? Probably not. The timing was too perfect, and the withering glare that Perenelle had cast on Nicolas before the “tour” led her to believe that Perenelle had deliberately done so to foil her husband’s plan.

Either way, this was a fortunate turn of events as Cyrna really had no place to stay.

Sighing, she placed down her emptied cup on the desk, and headed over to her bed to take a short nap.

The Flamel’s estate, like many other Victorian mansions, was opulent on the outside with stretches upon stretches of land. The gardens were well-tended, and though you could often spot strange birds and creatures lurking in the woods on the border of the estate, there was a distinct lack of magical creatures within the mansion wards. Non-magical creatures, however, had not been barred from entering the estate.

Frequent visits of varying bird species and the occasional strays could be seen wandering through the gardens at certain intervals of the day. Unlike the Malfoy Manor, there was a distinct lack of albino peacocks strutting around the estate.

It was a beautiful morning that Cyrna woke up to. Her appreciation of weather, however, came to a halt when she remembered that her nap had been way too long for a nap. She had missed dinner, a dinner in which she had been expected to attend.

Perenelle would probably wave it off the same way she did to whatever strange things Cyrna said, but Nicolas was sure to be unbearable. He would probably go off on her during breakfast about how rude it was to skip dinner without giving the hosts a prior notice.

Then there was her moment of realization that the Flamels had housed a stranger. A stranger who they didn’t even know the name of.

Sighing, Cyrna headed down for breakfast, determined to at least introduce herself before Nicolas started ranting.

 

*****

               

“So, where are we?” Cyrna asked as they ate lunch.

A grunt could be heard from Nicolas, who had been annoyed at her since breakfast, while Perenelle jumped at the chance for conversation.

“We’re in the south of Devon!”

Quickly, Cyrna mentally pulled up the map of the world. Devon… Devon… “that would mean that we are currently overlooking the English Channel?”

“Correct,” Perenelle chirped. There was another pocket of silence as the three awkwardly ate their food. “So are you from England?” Perenelle asked a while later, “You seem to be quite familiar with this area.”

Cyrna paused. Her fork hovering midair, just above her pasta, before she set it down and looked at the Flamels who were sitting across from her at the dining table. There were two ways to answer this question. Her psyche, or mind, was most definitely from America, but it seemed that the body she now resided in was from England.

 _You promised that you would not lie to them. And omitting the truth is the same as lying_.

As one who didn’t understand sympathy and compassion, her word was important to her. _Her word defined her_. If she promised something, she would never consciously break it.

Besides, the Flamels were going to die soon. What harm was there to let them in on her secret, given that they were willing to undertake a vow of secrecy? This was the fastest way to get any sort of help, she reasoned.

*****

               

“I need a vow of secrecy before I can answer that question,” Cyrna stated.

Perenelle immediately agreed, but Nicolas incredulously replied, “We saved you from death, you destroyed our house, and now, you can’t even answer the most basic question?”

“My circumstances are complicated,” Cyrna whispered, slightly abashed.

“Complicated. _Right_ ,” sneered Nicolas. “In all my six hundred and eighty-eight years, I have never came across a person who claimed that ‘are you from England’ to be a difficult question to answer. For Merlin’s sake! It’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. They are about as _basic_ as questions can get.”

“Nico—” started Perenelle in a scandalized tone.

“And _I_ am willing to bet that _my_ situation is one that you have never come across in your six hundred or so years of life,” Cyrna bit back.

There was silence now as both the Flamels carefully re-evaluated their newest guest. How unique could her circumstance be? To them, she was a child, possibly even a baby—she had not even lived a quarter of their lifespan. What event could have happened within _ten_ years of her life? Both knew that she had been abused, but that really had no correlation with the question Perenelle had asked.

“Arrogant, aren’t we?” Nicolas finally murmured.

“Perhaps if arrogance meant self-preservation, then yes. _Very_ ,” replied Cyrna in a calmer tone.

After a staring contest that lasted for a solid five minutes, Nicolas reluctantly gave in and swore the oath. He was nothing if not curious, and his most famous creation that landed him a place in the chocolate frog cards—the Philosopher’s Stone—proved it.

 

*****

 

“I’m both from England and not from England,” Cyrna blurted out immediately after the oaths were sworn.

The Flamels exchanged a glance before looking at her with pity.

“ _Damn it,_ ” she thought, “Now they think I’m mental.” So, before anyone could interrupt, she hastily ploughed on with her story.

“The short version is that I was a second-year medical school student in a different universe who was killed by a car in North America during the 21st century, then I woke up in this child’s body who, based on the memories, has elven blood in her and is from England. So technically, _I_ , defined by my spirit, am _not_ from England while this body _is_ from England.”

 

Silence.

 

“I need help, or at least basic information,” Cyrna pleaded, “I don’t know the rules that this universe plays by and playing a game without knowing the rules is the set-up for failure.”

 

More silence.

 

She was about to lose hope in getting a response other than silence, when Perenelle said softly, “You’re serious, aren’t you? Since the wards of this house has not gone off since you entered, I know that your mind has not been influenced by any spells.”

“She could be lying, you know that does not require any external influence” stated Nicolas without great confidence.

“You know she’s not,” replied Perenelle.

“This isn’t _normal_ ,” said Nicolas.

“You don’t sa—” Cyrna began sarcastically, before she was interrupted.

“No, _listen_ child,” Nicolas said emphatically, “I have seen magic do great amount of things, _wondrous_ things, _evil_ things; I witnessed Grindelwald’s reign as well as the First Wizarding War, both of which were the darkest moments of history, _and_ I have lived a _long_ time before those events had even happened.”

“You see,” he continued, “Magic plays with life, it plays with death, it plays with space, and for Merlin’s sake, it can even play with time—through time turners. But _never_ has magic played with _all four elements at the same time_. Jumping through the rifts of time for more than five hours in the past is a feat in itself, but what Magic did to you was it tore you out of your dimension and placed you in an alternate space of a different past. Then, Death stole the soul from the body you currently reside in, and Life took you from your universe and planted you in the empty shell.”

               

“Magic has never intervened to such extent. So, if what you say is true, _why you_? _What_ do you have to offer to this world?”

 

Cyrna paled. She had been so wrapped up in surviving the present, that she had not even thought of her reincarnation from this perspective; she had just written it off as a chance of fate.

She knew she was smart, maybe even brilliant. But she didn’t think that she could compare to the genius of scientists who made ground-breaking scientific discoveries. She was brilliant, but she, unlike Einstein, could never create complex physical or mathematical relations between variables.

People might argue and say that Einstein was not from the 21st century, or perhaps, that Cyrna was summoned because of her familiarity with the Harry Potter series; but she would bet her life that she was not the smartest person in her world who had read the Harry Potter books.

—nor was she the person from her world who knew the most about the series. Sure she had read through them multiple times, but she knew that there were those who had the books memorized word for word as if it was gospel.

 

‘ _There is nothing I can offer that others cannot_ ,’ she realized.

 

In fact, she knew that besides her knowledge and intelligence, there was little else that she _could_ offer.

If Magic had wanted a hero for the upcoming war, then it should have chosen someone who had an immense potential to love and care for others. According to Dumbledore, it had been Harry’s ability to love and care for others that allowed him to win, and it was Snape’s love for Lily that gave him the strength to persevere and complete his role as a spy.

_Cyrna was more than aware of the fact that she felt no inclination to die for a world she felt little to no love for._

 

*****

 

Cyrna’s mouth felt dry as she stated her answer.

“Nothing.”

“What!? What do you mean nothing? Magic always has a reas—” began Nicolas.

“There is _nothing_ I can do that someone else could not do _better_. I have nothing unique to offer. This is the truth,” Cyrna rambled on, determined to be honest, “I’m smart, but not a genius; I can’t even care for someone, much less the world, so _if_ there was a battle, _I would flee_.”

“Then perhaps,” Perenelle spoke softly after a while had passed, “you are here because there is something that _our world_ can offer _to_ you.”

“Wha—”

“Be quiet Nicolas,” Perenelle said sternly, before softening her gaze as she turned back to Cyrna. “To me, it’s as if you’ve taken everything that’s happened to you in stride. You’ve adapted ridiculously well for someone’s third day in this world; I would think that one would still be in shock if they had cared deeply for anyone in their old world.”

She must have seen something in Cyrna’s expression that confirmed her theory, because she smiled sadly before continuing:

“Before your accidental magic flattened our house, the air was thick with magic. I’m not an able potioneer nor am I a genius like my husband, but I _am_ more sensitive than him to the nuances of magic. Your outburst was filled with anger, fear, and despair, but strangely enough, there was not a hint of grief in it.”

Perenelle concluded, “You were able to adapt so well in this world because _you never lived_ in your world. You existed, but never lived.”

You would have been able to hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. The air was thick with tension, but Perenelle seemed unaffected as she continued glibly a few moments later, “So perhaps, Magic has brought you here to give you _another_ chance to live.”

“My second chance?” Cyrna asked, suddenly sounding as young as she looked.

“Perhaps,” Perenelle gently replied, “perhaps this is Magic giving you _and_ this child’s body a chance to belong in the world— _one last chance so that you may find your reason to live_.”


	3. The Difference Between Good and Evil

Quiet chirrups of birds announced the new morn as soft rays of dawn filtered through the high arched windows into a room handsomely furnished with burgundy-toned couches and a plethora of vintage bookshelves, each of which were filled to the brim with priceless tomes. Wax candles of different heights along with stacks of parchment and ink were strewn all over the surface of intricately carved mahogany tables located in the darkened corners of the room as they accumulated dust from years of neglect.

Soft crackling sounds of burning logs were heard and the occasional sparks and flares danced across the shadows of two conversing figures who sat by the fireplace of their living room.

A sudden flame blazed and lit up its immediate surroundings, revealing the figures to be none other than Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. Hushed murmurings could be heard at this ungodly hour of the morning.

“You should apologize” said a quiet, stern tone.

“…”

A sigh followed, then—

“You can choose to either get along or tolerate her presence but know that I will allow her to stay for as long as she wants my help.”

“… “

“ _You’re too proud to admit that you’ve judged her wrongly._ ”

An intake of breath heard from the silent figure marked the intention of voicing a statement.

“—Don’t deny it. I’m not scolding you for being suspicious, Merlin knows how many times that’s helped to keep the Stone safe, but even you must know that your attitude towards her was far past what could be excused as suspicion.”

 

There was a moment of silence as Nicolas contemplated his response.

 

“There is just something off about her.” He sighed. “You said it yourself—that you didn’t feel any grief in her magic from her outburst. There are only two wizards I know that would react the same way as she did to her situation: Grindelwald and Voldemort.”

“She’s not evil,” said Perenelle with certainty.

“Not _yet_.” Nicolas stressed. “Children think that good and evil, light and dark are separated by a distinct line, and as adults, you begin to understand that there are grey—neutral areas—but what many wizards fail to recognize is that while those boundaries are blurred, there _is_ one distinct characteristic that separates and marks the fall from good to evil.”

“Love?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “but more specifically, I believe that it is the connection that humans form with other humans. _Sympathy._ ”

Nicholas continued on grimly, “You don’t know Albus as well as I do Perenelle; I was there when he met and became enraptured with Grindelwald and his ideals. There _is_ a reason why Grindelwald viewed only Albus as his equal—it was because they were similar. They were similar in their intellect and power, and at the peak of Albus’ enthrallment, similar also in their ambition and in their belief that muggles were inferior. You have absolutely no idea of how close Albus was to falling dark…the only thing that prevented his fall _was his ability to sympathize_.”

“And believe me when I say that it wasn’t his morals that stopped him,” he scoffed “—by then, they were far too twisted to do any good. No, it was Ariana’s death that woke him. His care _for her_ allowed him to _feel grief,_ and with grief came _guilt_.” Nicholas finished, “His guilt was what gave him the needed push to return to the light.”

There was a moment of silence as Perenelle digested the information.

 

“Are you saying that Cyrna’s lack of sympathy will make her evil?” she asked.

 

“No,” he sighed, “I’m saying that _if_ Cyrna falls from the light, then there will be nothing holding her back from becoming the next Dark Lord. You _know_ how powerful she already is, and this is before her magical maturity.”

Perenelle knew that this was not an exaggeration of Cyrna’s magical potential. There was accidental magic, like levitating objects or making them disappear, and then there was _accidental magic_ —the sort that Dumbledore, Riddle, and Grindelwald had displayed in their childhood. _That_ type of accidental magic was much more powerful and advanced, not to mention dangerous.

She shivered as she recalled Dumbledore’s recounting of his meeting with the young Tom Riddle.

 

“ _I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to…_ ”

 

She had been skeptical at first when she had heard this tale. While it was common for a young child to display uncontrolled wandless magic, also called accidental magic, it was rare for a child to have the advanced ability to perform intentional wandless magic, much less wandless magic that was comparable to _imperio_.

But really, the only difference between Cyrna’s show of magic and Riddle’s was _control_. If Cyrna learnt how to control her magic and used it for evil…

She didn’t want to entertain _that_ idea.

But would Cyrna act on the temptation to use her powers for evil?

She had just lectured her husband about judging too quickly. Nicolas did make a valid point, there _were_ chilling similarities between her and Riddle.

               

But similarities in the end, were just similarities. _Actions_ were what characterized a person.

               

She thought back to her interactions with Cyrna, and immediately, she knew that her primary instinct on Cyrna’s character was not wrong.

               

“Nicolas. Do you think that Cyrna’s story was a lie?” asked Perenelle suddenly.

“No.” Nicolas replied confusedly, “but what does this have to do with her going dark?”

“Here’s another question,” Perenelle continued, seemingly ignoring his response. “If Riddle had been in that child’s body, do you think he would have spun a story so far-fetched that a normal wizard, after listening, would be more inclined to feel suspicion rather than sympathy?”

Nicolas thought for a while. "He wouldn't," he reluctantly conceded. "He would have woven a story of abuse, attempting to play with our compassion so that we would be manipulated into providing hospitality for him. Cyrna did—"

"—the exact opposite." Perenelle finished softly. "Besides the fact that you were the one who chose to apparate her here, and  _I_  was the one who invited her into our estate, she has shown  _morals_  or at least a sense of justice. Remember yesterday by the seashore when she ignored my hand? I remember you complaining to me about how arrogant it had all seemed. I myself had seen it as shyness or caution, but I think we were both wrong."

Understanding dawned in the alchemist’s eyes as he, for the first time, viewed Cyrna’s actions without bias.

“Her rejection of your hand was in some _twisted_ way her sense of honesty,” he muttered thoroughly astounded. “She _did_ feel bad about destroying our house as a repayment for our care,” he snorted amusedly, “In fact, I’m actually quite sure that she has somehow talked herself into the idea of ‘owing’ us her honesty.”

Then he sobered, the fleeting moment of merriment lost as his thoughts turned serious.

 _“I knew I was different. I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something._ ” was what Riddle had said to Albus. What a far cry that was compared to Cyrna’s view of herself: “ _There is nothing I can do that someone else could not do better. I have nothing unique to offer._ ”

Oh, he knew that she was smart—he could tell by the way understanding and recognition dawned on her eyes when she had pieced together her observations of Perenelle, himself, and their potions room to, almost instantaneously, form the conclusion that she had been reincarnated into an alternate universe.

He was also fairly certain that _she_ knew that she was smart. In fact, the way she carried herself around screamed ‘confidence.’ He had first mistaken this as arrogance, but now he knew better.

His erroneous belief of her arrogance combined with his awareness that she was highly intelligent had lead him to be extremely wary around her. And _if_ Cyrna had been truthful in her description of herself, then she was either very humble or a realist who believed that she was remarkable in her abilities but not the best.

His instinct was telling him that the latter was the more likely explanation.

All these ponderings soon culminated to Nicolas’ current dilemma: Had he really misjudged her that severely? Could he trust her?

               

*****

 

Perenelle sat quietly on her worn-down cushioned armchair as she watched her husband contemplate his past actions towards Cyrna. The Philosopher’s Stone, she mused, had marked the peak of Nicolas’ genius as well as the start of his pessimism. In the early years when he had just invented the Stone, they had been hounded and chased by people who wanted it, and as danger grew, Nicolas’ paranoia did as well; still he had never doubted the inherent goodness of mankind.

That had all changed when their child had died.

Her chest tightened painfully as she remembered that moment. One day they had returned home only to find their wards destroyed and their home upturned.

A crazed man had held their child at wand point while thirty other men had stood by.

They demanded the Stone in return for their child.

She remembered her child’s frantic cries of _“Mamma! Papa!”_ and she also remembered the hardening of Nicolas’ eyes as he made his decision. In the next moment, he had gripped her arm and had apparated them out of the house. In the midst of apparating, she knew that neither she nor her husband would forget the enraged cry of _“Avada Kedavra”_ as the consequence of their choice was made known.

She knew that he had chosen correctly—the Philosopher’s Stone was far too dangerous in the hands of evil.

But even with that knowledge, she had still been bitter towards her husband for the longest time, after all, what mother would sacrifice her son, even if it was to save the world?

However, as she had lived on, time softened the edges of her pain and she made up with Nicolas a decade later. She learned to love and care for other people again, but the same could not be said for her husband.

Nicolas had never been quite the same after the incidence.

First, he had lost the ability to see good in people, then he lost the ability to trust. Paranoia, which had been festering within him for years, soon made itself known in Nicolas’ decision to separate from the rest of society.

 

Unwilling to let Nicolas face eternity on his own, she had followed him to his self-imposed exile.

 

They had been living in solitude for around 400 years when one day, Nicolas had brought back a young Albus Dumbledore. He had muttered something about teaching alchemy to the young man as a favour for Albus’ third great-grandfather before herding the boy downstairs into the potions room.   

She remembered Nicolas’ disappointment when he discovered Albus’ involvement with Grindelwald, and she remembered how much Albus’ return to the Light had meant for him—to Nicolas, the return had been the needed proof that not all men would fall when tempted by evil.

 

In the next eighty or so years after that revelation, Nicolas had mellowed out, and his paranoia was reduced to subdued suspicion.

 

*****

               

Despite having told Cyrna that Magic had placed her here because there was a place for her in this world, Perenelle wasn’t so blind as to believe that Magic would do such a thing without a price.

 _Magic’s intervention always came with a price_.

In return for a second chance, Magic had probably trapped Cyrna into a path that she would not be able to stray from. _Where_ the path of fate would lead her, she did not know. But she _did_ know that it was more than a simple stroke of luck that had led them to the girl in the Elven Forest.

               

She glanced once again at her husband who by now had been sitting in silence for quite a while.

 

 

“Nicolas, don’t fear her for something that she may never become.”

               

 

“Going with your logic,” he muttered miserably, “’we should fear her for something she _may_ become’ would also be a perfectly valid conclusion.”

“You know that she has morals _and_ that she has tried to learn how to heal and care for people,” interjected Perenelle.

“So?” queried Nicolas, not understanding her point.

“So unlike Riddle, she hasn’t given up on sympathy _—she still has a desire to learn to care for others_. And that, if nothing else, sets her worlds apart from any other Dark Lords.”

_She does have a sense of integrity… but…_

Nicolas spoke with a weariness that seemed to come deep within his soul:

 “Would you run a race that seems to stretch on forever with neither the directions for how to get to the goal nor the knowledge on when the race will end? There’s only so much one can endure before they tire of what they will perceive as running in vain. _Even the most stubborn of humans would be worn down if their attempts_ were _met with nothing but failure_. One day, she will decide that she is tired of trying to care.”

“She could change for the worse,” finished Nicolas.

“ _But she might also change for the better_ ,” countered Perenelle. “Nicolas, have I ever been wrong about the matters of the heart? If you can’t trust her yet, then trust _me_ when I tell you that she will not fall to darkness.”

Nicolas’ eyes softened as he gazed upon his wife. His thoughts traveled back to their days at Beauxbatons, then to the time when he had successfully created the pinnacle of alchemy, then finally to _that_ day when he had chosen to save the world instead of his son. The hundreds of years that passed by after the incidence had been blurred with despair, self-loathing, and irrational anger. But through it all, Perenelle had stayed by his side; she had always comforted him in his bouts of grief and had offered him wisdom in his bursts of anger.

When he had brought back a 19-year old Albus to teach, Perenelle had been wary of his student. ‘There is something wrong about his magic’ she had stated. Neither had really known why until he had found out of his protégé’s involvement with Grindelwald.

 

No, she had never been wrong when it came to judging a person’s character.

 

He observed the lines that time had marked on Perenelle’s face, and he thought of how different she looked now than when they had first met as children. And in this moment under the light of the dawn, to him, she had never looked more beautiful.

He gazed into the eyes of the one who had comforted him and had anchored his sanity during his time of despair. They now shone with wisdom and affection as its owner waited patiently for his response.

“ _No_ , you have never erred,” Nicolas answered as he smiled tenderly at her, “and if you are willing to go to such lengths to defend her, then _—just once more—_ I’ll place my trust in the potential of humanity to do good in the face of evil.”

 

*****

 

Perenelle’s eyes brightened as she heard the answer. Perhaps one day, Nicolas would be able to completely overcome the trauma that lingered in his soul since his son’s death and that he would be able to trust in the good of mankind once again.

A yelp followed by the distinct sound of shattering dishes jolted both the Flamels from their conversation. Standing at alert, they exchanged a glance before Nicolas' lips quirked into a smile.

"I think our little guest has arrived."

"Oh dear," Perenelle muttered fretfully, "I forgot to warn Cyrna of the rather unfriendly stray that visits the kitchen every so often during the early mornings for food. I best go and find them before either gets hurt," said Perenelle as she hurried to the kitchen.

 

Nicolas watched with more than just mild amusement as his wife rushed off like a frantic mother hen.

 

Perenelle had always had a habit of picking up strays, perhaps it was her way to fill the void that their son’s death had left in them. Nevertheless, he sincerely hoped that he was not making the wrong decision in trusting the newest addition to their family—there was no way his wife would let the child go, not after her impassioned plea to him for her to remain.

 

With a sigh, he followed Perenelle to the kitchen at a much calmer pace, all the while thinking about how he should go about introducing Cyrna to her new world and what he should teach to someone from an alternate universe.

The child seemed intelligent—maybe even brilliant enough to learn alchemy.

“Perhaps I can teach her my trade,” he muttered to himself as he headed out of the living room.

 

After all, it _had_ been quite a while since he had taken on an apprentice.


	4. The Familiar

Sleep early and wake early.

That was Cyrna’s preferred sleeping habit though she had broken it on occasion as the work load in college became increasingly heavy.

As a creature of habit, she had woken up early this morning to find that there was, of course, no research papers to write or readings for her to finish. A pleased smile stretched across her face, as she thought of all the things she could do in her newfound time.

‘ _Practicing magic unsupervised is dangerous and risky at best…Wi-Fi,’_ she mused, ‘ _is also probably nonexistent within this mansion.’_

A glance out her window showed that it was still quite early in the morning.

The blanket of fog characteristic of seaside-locations had yet to lift, painting the skies a misty gray. Streams of light peeking through the dewy-morning air, made its way into her room.

There was nothing really to do right now, she thought as she eagerly prepared to snuggle back into her bed for a quick nap before waking up at a more reasonable hour.

Her head had just touched the pillow when a sharp rapping on the window pane caught her attention.

 

“What?” she groaned, unwilling to get up.

 

The rapping continued insistently, and Cyrna burrowed deeper into her pillow in response.

 

She had finally muffled the sound when suddenly, a long harsh metallic squeaking sound assaulted her hearing. Growling, she opened her eyes slowly, prepared to glare at the culprit who dared to interrupt her peace.

Loud scuffling noises which seemed to originate from her window ledge drew Cyrna's attention. She swung her head towards the window just in time to catch a glimpse of a tiny paw before a frantic  _mrreeoww_  was heard as the paw lost its grip and disappeared from her view.

 

_Wait._

 

Her heart pounded rapidly as she sprinted towards the glass panes.

 

_This is the fourth floor._

 

She leaned over her desk and yanked the windows open in time to see a small ball of fur plummet to the ground.

 

 _There's no way it'll survive the fall,_ she thought with panic.

 

Adrenaline kicked in; a strange rushing sound filled her ears as her pulse thundered.

 

_Small hands trembled in the darkness. She felt her body shiver from the cold as she tucked her legs close to her chest. Laying down on the makeshift bed in the dark room, she fervently prayed for the cold to go away._

_A cough welled up in her throat before she succumbed to the painful hacking that she had been experiencing the past few days. She would have tried to pull the thin bedsheet up higher except her fingers felt numb; unresponsive._

_Really, she was just so tired. As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, she thought once more of the warmth from the human that had carried her into the dark room when she was a child, and strangely enough, the last thing she heard before her eyes fell closed in slumber, was the quiet whisper of the air around her as it stirred and held her in a warm embrace._

 

Cyrna blinked in confusion. 

_Was that a memory?_

A pitiful cry brought her attention back to the present, and without pondering any longer, she recalled the magic that she had felt from her memories to break the fall of the small creature. Her eyes glazed over as she entered a trance-like state. Her body operating in an almost automatic fashion as her magic welled up and danced on the surface of her skin.

Without hesitation, she directed the magic towards the creature and focused hard on her desire to save the tiny creature.

Her magic responded.

From the still of the morning air, strong gusts of wind suddenly appeared. Gently, it swirled around the kitten, catching it, before lowering it to the ground. As its dirt-covered grey paws neared the ground, Cyrna snapped out of whatever trance she had been in, and her concentration broke. Whatever control she had over her magic faded and the kitten landed safely, though not too gently, on the ground.

 

Brilliant blue and crystal eyes met and held for a moment before the kitten broke its gaze and scampered off into the meadows.

 

*****

 

_I did magic again._

Adrenaline left, and she dizzily sank down onto the wooden floors feeling as if she had never slept. Her head pounded from her exertion and her thoughts sluggishly moved around in her mind. Her malnourished body was unable to keep up with her use of magic.

Holding her crouched position on the ground as her muscles slowly relaxed, she thought back to the memories that she had dismissed and shuddered. She now knew why her skin was so unhealthily pale—her previous host had rarely seen the light of day.

Cyrna sighed as she rested her back on the side of her desk.

Was Perenelle correct in believing that this was her second chance?

She held up her hands and examined them. The skin, though pale, was already looking much healthier than the hands she had seen in her memory. She flexed her fingers, which were a couple of shades lighter than the ones she used to have, and watched with a strange sort of fascination as they responded.

The fingers that were hers, and yet, were not really hers. They, and the body, had once belonged to another child, to another stranger.

She had never believed in what other people called 'coincidences.'

Fate, like an expert puppeteer, controlled the lives of people. With just a twitch, tug, and turn of the strings, fate dictated the story that the puppet would play. There was no such thing as coincidence when Magic had plopped her into this body.

She would never claim that she  _deserved_  another chance of life—there were many people more unfortunate than her in her world and many others who would have benefited more if they had been chosen. 

And what role would she have?

A hero? A villain? she pondered. Was it too naive to think that she could play the role of a common bystander?

 

Probably.

 

After all, if Fate had wanted to play out the Harry Potter series, there would have been no need to bring in someone with knowledge of the books into this world. She was certain that she had been brought in to change something, though she did not know what.

Many had died in the  _Deathly Hallows_ , but their deaths, to some extent, had ensured the victory of the Light. So the ending may not have been perfect, but it was still very far from the worst possible scenario—Voldemort winning.

If she had a choice, she wouldn't want to change anything. Not changing anything meant that it was guaranteed that everything would go the way the books described. It was guaranteed that the Light would win.

But what of the people who died?

Her lips twisted into a frown.

 _Being omniscient was hard_ … there was just too much responsibility… was this how Dumbledore had always felt in the books? She knew how unethical Dumbledore's "game" had been; moving people as you would chess pieces. Marking people for death at just the right moment so you could get the most out of their life.

Though ultimately, Cyrna conceded, it  _had_  been for the "greater good." If not for Dumbledore's planning, she couldn't see Harry figuring out or directing the war successfully.

Still, no matter which way she twisted it, she knew that intentionally marking someone for death was probably a sin.

She was even more certain that there was a special place in hell for someone who  _allowed_  deaths to happen despite knowing how to prevent them.

But to determine who would live or die... what gave her the right for that? Perhaps it  _would_ be better to just leave the story be. Let those who died, die again.

Cyrna grimaced.

She was sure a moral human wouldn't do that, and if she went through with that, she had an unsettling feeling that doing so would set her further away than ever before from learning sympathy.

 

_But is learning sympathy worth the cost of risking my life?_

 

She would lose her advantage of knowing the future events if she diverged from the storyline; at the same time, she didn't think she could just stand by and let the deaths play out. That guilt would be too much to stomach.

 

She thought back to her previous life.  _Is life worth living without being able to sympathize?_

 

Neither were questions she really wanted to answer. 

_And perhaps I won't have to answer them just yet..._

_I don't want to take an active role in the story, but if I were to befriend Harry Potter, I would be able to have a better control of how much I allow the story impact me and the degree to which I want to impact the story._

It was a good compromise that would give her the best flexibility for her current struggle.

Perfect.

 

A glance at the clock showed that it was seven in the morning. 

There were thirty minutes until breakfast, and she still felt exhausted. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with tiredness, slipped across a tall mirror that was propped up against the walls. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed corresponded to that of the figure in the mirror.

Really. It was quite jarring to see herself in another body. 

She gave a quiet sigh and closed her eyes. Whose body  _was_  she living in, and why  _this_  body?

She hadn't expected anything to happen when she ran the questions through her head, but as she thought of this, a faint silver strand seemed to light up in her mind. Curious, she focused on the strand and watched as it grew brighter and brighter. She followed the strand, walking the winding pathway that led to a small pewter box lying innocuously at the back of her mind.

Her sprite floated towards the box.

Ready to pry it open, she reached out, but just before she could touch the box, a hidden force shoved her out of her own mind and back into reality.

She groaned as a sharp pang of pain coursed through her head from the sudden exit. She was awake now, though slightly disoriented.

As her eyes opened, a scene played across her mind:

A circle of elders—all with strange elf-like ears—crowding around the child's crib with absolute fear apparent in their eyes as they looked down and hoarsely whispered one word:  _"Laufeia_. _"_

 

*****

 

_Well at least now I have a name for the previous host._

As she reviewed the memory a couple more times, she grew increasingly confused and worried. What had the elders seen that would cause them to react that way?

Looking back at the mirror, she took her time to carefully examine the figure in the reflection. Startling blue eyes returned her gaze. She took in her sunken cheeks, cracked lips, and her long raven hair that had an unaccountable number of split ends.

Pale, unhealthy skin from lack of sunlight. Chipped nails. Scrawny. Malnourished.

At the present, she was nothing pleasant to look at, but she was quite sure that when she was a baby, she had been a typical baby of typical health.

Cyrna frowned. Laufeia had just been cooing when the elders had looked upon her.

It might have been her magic that they feared; Cyrna knew that Laufeia was powerful—she had been capable of performing wandless magic by herself before the age of around five? she thought as she tried to place an age on the child that had been in the dark room.

But the recognition that had dawned on the elders’ eyes when they saw her for the first time… it had been much too quick to possibly attribute the cause to them sensing and fearing her magic.

No, their reaction had been primitive.

An instantaneous reaction like that was usually caused by a visual, phenotypic trigger. It must have been something about her physical appearance that caused the elders’ eyes to widen in recognition before it changed to fear.

But what?

The only features she could pick out from herself that had not been deformed by years of abuse were her blue eyes and black hair.

And while the combination was uncommon, she didn’t think that it was _that_ rare for it to be significant.

Then there were the strange ears that the elders and Laufeia’s mother had had.

She could remember reading about house-elves from the books, but never about humanoid elves similar to the ones from _Lord of the Rings_. Then again, even if she had never heard of them, that did not mean that they couldn’t exist.

In anything, Nicolas’ rant about elves meant that they, in fact, probably did.

Honestly, in a world filled with goblins, unicorns, hippogriffs, and dragons—just to name a few, she decided that the existence of humanoid elves would not be strange at all.

 

*****

 

A sudden grumble from her stomach brought Cyrna’s attention out from her contemplation.

_I love food, but sometimes, hunger just comes in the most inconvenient moments._

Glancing at the ornate grandfather clock that sat adjacent to the other side of her desk, she realized that it was already 8:00 a.m.

_Ah._

_No wonder why._

With a huff, Cyrna unraveled herself from her crouched position and headed to the bathroom so that she would look slightly more presentable during breakfast. Within minutes she had showered and brushed her teeth.

 _I’m thirty minutes behind my usual routine_.

Daily ablutions completed, she picked out a robe that Perenelle had left for her before heading down.

As she quietly trod down the stairs, a nagging feeling came across her mind as she tried to recall what Nicolas had said specifically about elves. She had been a bit groggy at that time when he was speaking at a rapid-fire pace about how they were supposed to look.

She growled, hating the feeling she got when a needed memory hovered just at the edge of her thoughts. Worse, was that it was always the key memory needed to solve the puzzle.

Despite being lost in her thoughts, her feet somehow brought her successfully to the kitchens, and she ran through the well-repeated motions of preparing a lightly buttered toast served with a thin layer of jam.

She plated her food without much thought and left it on the dining table before heading back to the kitchen to find some milk. After a few minutes of searching, she finally found it in a large jug lying near an open window. She grabbed it and nearly dropped it in surprise.

It was _cold_ despite not being refrigerated.

A localized freezing charm? The only one she had heard of was _glacius_ , and she was sure that that would cause the milk to freeze solid rather than cool it.

She made a mental note to ask Fortescue’s how they kept their ice cream cold.

Busy contemplating about the various uses of magic, she failed to notice a small furry creature slink in through the opened kitchen windows as it crouched down and prepared to pounce.

All Cyrna saw as she lifted her jug of milk was a small ball of white fur hurtling towards her face at an unknown speed.

“Oh shit!” she yelped as she ducked and rolled away, dropping the jug.

A resounding crash echoed through the mansion as the glass jug shattered and milk splashed in all directions.

Drenched with milk, Cyrna carefully peered over her arm which she had flung over her face to protect her eyes and met the unmistakable blue gaze of the kitten she had saved earlier as it stood a few feet away, lapping up the spilt milk from the kitchen tiles with a smug grin.

“You little bastard!” Cyrna exclaimed, half shocked, half annoyed.

The kitten meowed lazily in response and finished up its meal before it padded over towards Cyrna and plopped itself on her lap, asking to be petted.

Cyrna gapped at the tiny bundle of fur nestled on her lap that had twice ruined what should have been a peaceful morning. She scowled down at it. “You actually think I’ll pet you, after what you’ve done to me?” she asked incredulously. “Well, I won’t. You don’t deserve to be petted.”

One eye opened and blinked innocently at her as it mewed plaintively and nuzzled the hand resting on the lap.

 

*****

 

This was the scene that Perenelle Flamel walked in to find.

Her heart melted at the sight of the unfriendly stray she had been caring for and the newest member of her household together.

An amused grin spread across her face when she noted the annoyed expression of a rather soaked Cyrna Raine as the kitten insistently butted the hand which remained lightly rested on her lap.

Nicolas who had followed behind her, took one look at the scene and at the milk that had splattered all over the floor and broke into peals of laughter.

Cyrna’s head snapped up at the sound, and she saw the Flamels watching her with varying degrees of amusement.

“You just… _*wheeze*…_ can’t seem… _*snort*…_ to stop breaking things, can you?” Nicolas managed to choke out as he chuckled.

Cyrna blushed, embarrassed and slightly mortified by the situations that the Flamels constantly found her in. They definitely had a knack for appearing in her most ungraceful moments.

Perenelle turned to face Nicolas, but before she could open her mouth, Nicolas cut in.

“No need… _*snort*_ … you can handle this. I’ll just be waiting in the dining room,” Nicolas smirked, eyes glimmering with suppressed laughter as he swept out of the kitchens.

The echoes of fading chuckles could be heard as he headed towards his destination.

Cyrna focused hard on a blank spot on the wall as she tried to reign in her embarrassment to gain some semblance of control in her voice so that she would sound somewhat calm.

“You don’t need to worry dear,” Perenelle spoke up once they were alone, “you’re not in trouble. That kitten has made far greater messes in this kitchen before. I’m just happy that he’s finally imprinted on someone; he’s always let me feed him, but he would never allow me to pet him.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to be imprinted on,” stated Cyrna dryly.

Perenelle laughed fondly. “Ah, but you’ll soon find that you have little control over what a cat does.”

“Is this my dose of wisdom for the day?” replied Cyrna amusedly.

“No, there is something else more important that you need to know about cats.” Perenelle leaned over with a grin and spoke in a staged whisper:

“What they want, they will always eventually get; there’s no use in denying them. Cats were made to be served.” Perenelle paused before continuing in a more serious tone. “Spoil them, and they will be your greatest friend—especially when you feel sad. Treat them with respect, and they will be a fiercely loyal defender in times of trouble.”

Arching a brow, Cyrna replied, “So you are not-so-subtly advising me to give in to the cat.”

Perenelle grinned mischievously, as she straightened up and headed towards the exit. “Did I imply such a thing?” she asked innocently—too innocently, as she cleaned up the mess with a wave of her wand before leaving the kitchens with a twinkle in her eye that was way too similar to the description of Dumbledore’s for Cyrna’s comfort.

 

*****

 

Once again alone in the kitchen with the kitten, she realized that it had stopped moving, and had instead, fallen asleep on the top of her hand during her conversation with the Flamel’s.

Cyrna sighed. Besides the fact that the kitten seemed to cause all sorts of trouble when it was awake, she still didn’t feel like owning another pet. She had grown fond of her dog in her past world and taking in a kitten this early in her time in the new universe… it just felt wrong—almost as if she was replacing her dog that had been nothing but faithful to her.

But on the other hand, it wasn’t as if she could simply go back to her own world. This whole thing was her second chance. So just maybe, she should give herself and the kitten a chance.

Cyrna tentatively reached out and petted the kitten who released a content and sleepy purr.

One end of her lips twitched up into a half-smile at its response.

Okay, so maybe it was kind of cute.

She gave a quiet chuckle as she tucked the kitten in her arms and headed towards the dining room.

Halfway there, she felt the bundle of fur shift.

“Finally waking up, are we?” she smirked at the small furball.

The kitten only blinked drowsily in response.

“We’ll need a name for you”

Blue eyes gazed into hers as it patiently waited for its name.

“You would be opposed to ‘kitty’ wouldn’t you?”

Cyrna swore that if cats could raise an eyebrow, and look unimpressed, then that was exactly what it was currently doing.

“I guess that’s a ‘no’,” Cyrna muttered. Facing the cat, she said, “honestly I was never one for naming things. After all, the object won’t suddenly change properties just because you give it a fancier name.”

The cat continued to give her an unimpressed look at her excuse.

Hmm…

Eyes that shone with intelligence, its apparent rude and cold attitude towards everyone with the exception to the person who had saved it, and its, what Cyrna swore to be, sarcastic and haughty attitude.

And right now, the look it was giving her reminded her so much of a particular character…

“How…” Cyrna hesitated as she realized that she couldn’t very well name her cat so blatantly after a professor that would probably teach her in a year. “How about… _Prince_?”

She was certain ‘Prince’ was a fairly normal pet name that would be subtle enough for Professor Snape not to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

The kitten cocked its head as if thinking, and after flicking its tail and giving a lofty nod of approval, it proceeded to climb up Cyrna’s arm before burrowing itself in the crook of her neck.

A grin broke out on Cyrna’s face as she thought of how accurate the name was in more ways than one as she made her way quietly down the hall to the dining room.

 

Pushing open the large mahogany doors leading into the room, she gazed at Perenelle who greeted her with a soft smile and at Nicolas who smirked at her. The sunlight streaming in from the arched windows lit up the room, and as she walked over to the table with her new companion perched on her shoulder, she thought with a smile:

 

“ _Maybe living isn’t so bad_.”


	5. The Letter from Hogwarts

_August 7 th, 1990_

Did I really ever think that life would finally be fun and relaxing?

Because living here is way more stressful than living in my old world.

It’s been around a month since I’ve been unofficially adopted by the Flamels. Perenelle is as kind as ever, and Prince has been less skittish in the presence of other humans. Perhaps he’ll be calm enough for me to bring him to Hogwarts as my pet. That would be amazing!

Nicolas though.

I can’t.

I actually can’t.

Generally, I think I’m fairly good at handling large workloads—I did pretty well in medical school; but honestly, Nicolas dishes out tasks at the same rate that Dumbledore hands out lemon drops—which is really fast.

It’s ridiculous.

I swear to god—or should I say, Merlin—that if my physical body was not as weak as it currently is, he would be asking me to wake up at 5 in the morning to “catch up” on my education which he believes to be sorely lacking.

Yeah talking about Nicolas…

He’s been a bit strange ever since the day I (well not really me, per say) made a mess in the kitchen; he has, for some unknown reason, been slightly more comfortable around me.

You’d think that this was a good thing, right? But it really isn’t.

Him being more comfortable around me meant that he was willing to spend more ‘quality time’ with me, which in turn, meant an increased daily dosage of sarcasm, smirks, and work.

Never-ending work.

The first time Nicolas had laid out tomes for me read (they had been about Wizarding customs and Pureblood etiquette), I had finished and had written a short report on each of them within the first half of the day. He had been disbelieving in my ability to read that quickly though I did attempt to explain to him, during lunch, that my reading speed was fast mainly because the concepts discussed in the tomes were so much easier to understand than some of the concepts you had to read and understand in college. I hadn’t really needed to reread or review any parts of the tomes to memorize the information.

After lunch, I headed up to my room, ready to relax or perhaps play with Prince since I had finished my work. That was when I saw a new stack of tomes on my desk.

I naively thought that it was work for the next day until I saw a note penned in rigid but neat writing:

_“Finish before dinner. – N”_

That was just the first taste of what I have come to term as my ‘summer from hell.’

Besides eating and sleeping, I pretty much just worked for the rest of the time. He somehow figured out exactly how many tomes (of various difficulties) I could handle per day, and he would unfailingly give me the exact number needed such that if I woke up at 7 a.m., I would finish at 9 p.m. on the dot.

I don’t think this schedule would have been hard to follow in my old body, but my new body couldn’t sustain all-nighters, and it tires quickly as the evening drags on. Perenelle was my saviour when she insisted to Nicolas that since I was still recovering, I needed proper and maybe even excessive hours of sleep.

All in all, Nicolas basically decided to take it upon himself to teach me the ‘basic facts’ (I swear that memorizing all the laws and the by-laws should not be considered basic knowledge) of this world since he thinks that I’m about as clueless as a newborn about this world. Which I’m not.

I know a decent amount of information about this world from the books—not the intricacies, but more than enough to help me get around.

Speaking of the books, I haven’t told him about the books yet. Should I tell him? Besides the obvious risks in sharing the future, how am I supposed to tell him about his own death? That would make things fairly awkward after—something I don’t feel like dealing with any time soon.

…I think I’ll hide this secret for as long as I can…

* * *

 

_August 28 th, 1990_

My second month in this universe is ending. I’m adapting, as humans usually do, to the stress.

Though I still think its pretty shitty how I have to be stuck within the four walls of the mansion (studying) despite the weather being amazing outside, I’ve made peace with that knowledge as I am aware that I must know as much information as I can to be able to blend in with the rest of the students.

I need to act as if I have always been a part of this world.

* * *

 

_September 15 th, 1990_

I wonder when Laufeia’s birthday is? Because I honestly have no idea when I’ll get my letter. Hopefully, it’ll be early in the year rather than late.

It’s strange to think that by this time next year, I’ll probably be in Hogwarts.

I’m excited, but also aware that time is passing by quickly.

I better get back to studying.

* * *

 

_October 1 st, 1990_

I have finally finished the reading list that Nicolas has given me for Pureblood etiquette, Wizarding laws and regulations, and Wizarding customs and traditions; I can say without a doubt that given a few months, I’ll not be able to retain half of what I’ve read and memorized.

The general ideas? Sure. The details…

… yeah. Let’s just leave it at that…

As for the specific responses that Purebloods should have for specific situations… I’ll definitely forget or slip up eventually if I pretend to be a pureblood at Hogwarts.

Besides, being a pureblood or a Muggle-born would definitely attract some sort of attention. I’m not too sure what my role is meant to be in this world, but I don’t plan to stand out. I’d much rather just stand by and watch the battle play out from the sidelines if possible.

I’m thinking half-blood.

Actually, I think that would work pretty well. Especially since it’s technically not a lie (I do have a bit of elven blood in me).

I haven’t figured out the rest of my story for my background yet, so I should probably talk it over with the Flamels before I go to Hogwarts.

* * *

 

_October 31 st, 1990_

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m actually updating my journal in the morning rather than at night!

At breakfast, Nicolas declared that today was Halloween, and thus, as respect towards tradition, I could celebrate the holiday by having a day off.

So right now, I’m just relaxing in my bed, thinking about how I should spend my break.

I have to say that it feels pretty weird suddenly having all this time to myself. I’m not too sure what to do with it… being so caught up in preparing myself for the first year at Hogwarts, I’ve pretty much tossed the idea of having fun this summer out the window.

Either way, I don’t think I’ll experience anything interesting if I remain in my bed with my quill and journal.

Maybe I’ll explore the mansion or the estate grounds—oh!

Prince, who’s currently lying on my shoulder just gave a small meow of approval to the idea. Sometimes I wonder if he understands what I say or write because he certainly seems to be able to respond.

Now, he’s tugging on the sleeves of my robes. He wants to leave. Now.

He’s still as impatient as he was three months ago.

Anyways, I’ll write about the rest of my day if anything interesting happens!

* * *

 

_November 1 st, 1990_

I think the festive spirit from yesterday was still affecting Nicolas when he assigned me my readings for today. It’s just 8:10 p.m. and I’ve already finished my last report.

For the past few minutes, I have been tensely waiting for another tome to just pop into existence on my desk so that my day will finish, like it always has for the past months, exactly at 9 p.m.

It’s been ten minutes, and nothing has appeared. I’m sort of concerned because Nicolas has never broken the work schedule he’s set for me. Time has not caused a decline in his mental capabilities, so I doubt it’s simple forgetfulness. If he’s done this on purpose, then giving me a break now… that means tomorrow will probably be hectic.

I should probably get whatever rest I can, but before I do, I guess I’ll write about what happened yesterday:

._..-.-._.-.-._.

Under Prince’s insistence, we went to explore the grounds first. The weather was quite a bit cooler than the last time I had been out, and though it was too cloudy for my liking, I was excited to finally leave the mansion. As soon as I stepped outside, I heard the quiet sounds of sea waves lapping the shores contrasted by the harsh echoes of gulls crying for food. The sea-scented breeze weaved through my hair, causing the strands to gently dance in all sorts of direction. A smile crept onto my face as nostalgia hit me: these were the scents and sounds that I had heard when Nicolas had first apparated me here. Giving a contented sigh, I lay down on a patch of rain-scented grass and watched as Prince scampered around the meadows of the Flamel estate. The deep green forest that had framed the estate when I had first arrived was now a beautiful mix of yellows, reds, and browns. I closed my eyes and relaxed, probably for much longer than I thought, because when I woke up (due to soft meows of distress) a dusty and unhappy looking Prince with autumn leaves and twigs sticking out of its fur, filled my vision. I sighed as I thought of the number of baths I would have to give him before his coat became white again.

I scooped the dust-covered furball into my arms before heading out of the estate, towards the sea.

Following the stone-paved path down the hill, just for a moment, I wondered what the Professor would say if he saw that the creature I had named after him was now sporting Gryffindor colours—with it being covered in crimson-gold leaves. As if Prince could hear my thoughts, his ears flattened, and his soft purrs turned into a low growl before a snort (that sounded awfully like disgust) was heard. After giving me an offended look, it turned its head and snuggled into the crook of my arm—wanting to block out the world.

I continued down the path till I reached the line where grass became sparser and the presence of sand became more and more pronounced; I stared at the figure standing a distance away by the shoreline. Waves lapped onto his long robes, wetting it, but the figure did not seem disturbed by this. Donned in a (somewhat garish) purple cloak, embroidered with small stars and planets, that reached the ground, he seemed to be rather out of place in the tranquillity that permeated the quiet, plain, and remote area.

My heart pounded, and my fingers trembled slightly in excitement as I slowly walked towards the still figure. Prince poked his head out and gazed with interest at the man that like him, had long silver hair—long enough to tuck into a simple gold braided belt that he wore around his waist. I was sure that this man, though he had not yet reacted, had already sensed me when I was a distance away, after all, very little could escape the notice of the greatest wizard of all times, Albus Dumbledore.

Now a few feet away from him, I stilled, hesitating on how I should approach him or if I even should. I ended up not really needing to contemplate too long on this matter because Dumbledore solved it for me.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Dumbledore, with his back still facing me, spoke, “Time and time again, whenever I arrive at this shoreline, I’m always amazed by how little the scenery changes: the vast turquoise ocean adorned with a small handful of white speckles—the little sailboats—scattered along the horizon…” he gives a soft throaty chuckle, “and the gulls…don’t they always seem to be crying for food?”

At this, he turns around and I’m met with the full force of his light blue eyes that sparkle mischievously behind his half-moon spectacles that rests lightly on a very long, crooked nose.

Still struck with amazement at meeting one of the key characters from my favourite childhood series, I could only nod dumbly in response. This all felt so surreal. His eyes shone playfully as he reached out with an old, wizened hand to pet and comb the fur of Prince, who surprisingly allowed him to do so.

He smiled as Prince purred in response to the attention he was getting. “And what’s the name of this little one?” he asked, now focusing his attention back on me despite not stopping the petting motion.

“Um. Prince,” I stutter out, “and I’m Cyrna.” An awkward pause. “Um. Cyrna Raine.” I cringed internally at the pathetic introduction that I had just delivered. It had been forever since I had felt so mentally unprepared to meet someone.

Dumbledore crouched down so that his twinkling eyes were now level with my wide eyes as he introduced himself, “Albus Dumbledore.” Then in a playful, secretive whisper, “Your future headmaster at Hogwarts.” He winked mischievously at me before straightening up and heading towards the stone-paved path that lead up to the Flamel Mansion. After a few seconds of gaping at the departing figure, I hurried, as fast as I could while carrying a cat, to the old wizard.

“How do you know I’ll be able to get into Hogwarts? I’m not 11 yet,” I asked breathlessly as I ran up to his side.

He smiled, “One would have to be a muggle or be truly blind to magic to not know.”

“What do you mean?”

His smile only grew wider as he eccentrically replied, “Always remember that magic is neither good nor evil. It is our choices that make it Light or Dark. With great magic comes great responsibility—something I can only hope that you’ll never forget.”

The rest of the climb was done in silence, if you ignored Dumbledore’s jovial humming, while I pondered his words. Was he trying to tell me to be careful with my magic because it was powerful? Was it powerful? Because I didn’t feel particularly strong. Sure, I had done accidental magic, but which child, if they were magical, hadn’t by now?

Before I knew it, I was at the foot of the mansion’s entrance, and the large oak doors in the main entrance opened, revealing Nicolas Flamel. Upon seeing his guest, his eyes lit up with excitement and a genuine smile—not like those smirks that he gives me—appeared on his face.

“Albus! It’s been too long.”

“Nicolas!” Dumbledore laughed, “how has the last 50 years treated you?”

With the greetings out of the way, Nicolas stepped aside to allow us to enter the mansion. Once Dumbledore had passed by, his eyes fell on me, finally noticing my presence. Looking at Prince who was now a dusty brown, his lips twitched slightly in amusement before it settled back into the familiar smirk that he had bestowed upon me daily for the past months.

Used to feeling ridiculous in front of Nicolas, I looked neutrally back at him until he motioned for me to head up to the bathroom to clean up the mess I had allowed Prince to become.

Nothing really special happened after. By the time I had finished cleaning Prince (it took two solid hours), Dumbledore had already left (I suppose he couldn’t leave school without its headmaster for too long). Though the mansion was big, there really wasn’t too much to explore as most of the rooms were locked and warded; I did find an astronomy room located at the highest floor of the house, but since it was not yet night, there was not much I could do in there. Dinner was amazing; I wasn’t too sure if it had been prepared by Perenelle or a house-elf, but I complimented and thanked the Flamels for their food and hospitality all the same.

Despite the amazing feast and desserts, there was a strange atmosphere during dinner—not tense, but serious. The Flamels tried to act as they usually did, however, they would often fall into moments of silent contemplation.

I had a vague, but fairly good guess as to what Dumbledore’s visit was about.

* * *

 

_December 26 th, 1990_

The heavy atmosphere since Dumbledore’s visit has not yet lifted. I’m now almost certain it was about the Philosopher’s Stone.

Perenelle has been unnaturally quiet, and Nicolas has been acting as if we were on a time crunch—though I guess for him and Perenelle, it is true. Either way, he has been relentless in his education for me, so much so that I have been studying during Christmas. The Christmas feast (yesterday) had been extravagant, much more so than the Halloween feast. However, the festive spirit was just not there. I’m not too sure what the Flamels were thinking about exactly, but I’m sure that they were stressed, and I was too tired from my readings during the day to initiate or carry any sort of conversation during dinner. Dinner was basically eaten in silence. Each busy with their own thoughts.

Today, in the early morning, I woke to find on my desk, a minuscule vial, just slightly taller than my thumbnail, filled to the brim with a scarlet liquid that seemed to glow and pulse with warmth and light—almost like a heartbeat. The note attached was simple but devastating as the reality of what the Flamels had chosen to do hit me.

_“To cheat death once. Use wisely. – Flamels”_

There was no way Nicolas would have given me a sample of the Philosopher’s Stone so soon if he had planned to live for hundreds of years longer. To be honest, I still don’t think he trusts me fully—I wouldn’t—so this gift was probably given under Perenelle’s influence.

I guess I should have seen this coming, but the reality was that I had been so caught up with my own schedule, that I had, in some ways, forgotten that they were meant to die in the storyline. And after spending months with them, I have to admit that I have unfortunately gotten attached to the dynamics and lifestyle of this family. They saved me, trusted me, and they gave me a place to stay. They had been the ones to step up and provide me with the stability I had craved when I had first arrived into this world. Still, I found myself debating about the wisdom of confessing to them about the existence of the Harry Potter series in my world.

There was no mention about the priceless gift from either Nicolas or Perenelle at lunch.

At dinner, Nicolas simply told me to never share or experiment with the “potion”, not to ask questions about it, and that its use was just as he had written. Nothing more, nothing less.

He then warned me that he would start teaching me practical magic, not just theory. Once January began, the workload would soon increase fairly drastically now that my body was healthy and capable of taking more strain.

* * *

 

_January 30 th, 1991_

I had blacked out the moment my body had hit my bed last night. I felt as if my body had been tossed into a laundry machine, then strained to dry in the dryer. Every muscle felt dead after the lesson that Perenelle had given me.

It had been the first duelling lesson. I’m not too sure what I had thought of Perenelle before, but I had never connected duelling with Perenelle until yesterday. Now, I’ll never forget it. After a quick (and I mean quick) duel in which I attempted to convert theoretical into practical knowledge, I realized that I had little to no control over my magic. I don’t know how much more control I would have had over my magic if I had a wand, but without my wand, my magic would only obey simple commands like _accio_ or _wingardium leviosa._ For some reason, wandlessly casting the hot-air charm and cooling charm also came with ease.

Perenelle had given me a strange, knowing look when she noticed that the wandless spells I showed aptitude in were mainly spells that affected the air. Then, for the rest of the three hours, she told me to practice controlling my magic by getting a “feel” for my magical core or by visualizing magical strands. Both exercises ended up requiring me to summon my magic then pull it back in so that it would surround me like a densely knit magical coat.

I tried to remember what Laufeia had done to control her magic wandlessly, but from what I could remember, her wandless magic was more similar to wish magic than it was to wizarding magic; using her magic would also probably cause me to fall into a trance. I shivered as I recounted that experience. While it hadn’t felt unpleasant, it was as if some unknown entity had taken temporary control of my body—and there was nothing I hated more than a lack of control over my own faculties. Nope. I was definitely not going to use _her_ power unless I had to.

 

* * *

This morning, Cyrna woke to a sound that she had hoped she would never need to wake to again.

The sharp rapping on her window pane began at 6 in the morning. Unwilling, and this time to some degree, unable to get up to due her sore muscles, Cyrna could only groan in response before burrowing deeper into the pillows and pulling the blankets over her head to muffle out the noise.

The tapping paused. _Thank Merlin_.

This time instead of the painful screeching sounds of claws raking across the glass, twittering and shuffling sounds were heard for a few minutes.

Then the tapping recommenced.

_What the hell is happening? Why is it always MY window during the MORNING!?_

Cyrna growled in frustration before snapping, “Prince!”

Surprisingly, Prince, perhaps taking pity on its owner, actually responded, and leapt onto her desk and opened the windows.

A small tawny owl with bright yellow eyes quickly flew in and hovered above Cyrna’s head for a moment before landing on the pillow. It then proceeded to peck (not too gently, though it did not draw blood) on the portion of her head that was not protected by the blankets.

Cyrna groaned in defeat as she realized that unless she satisfied her guest, there was no way she would be getting any rest. “Well, mind as well get the day started,” she muttered as she blinked open her eyes with great difficulty.

She opened her eyes to stare directly into large owl eyes that had an impatient glint to them. Scared that the next thing the owl would aim for would be her eyes if she did not get up, she sat up as fast as she could, and gave her full attention to her morning guest.

That was when she noticed the letter attached to the owl’s right leg.

While she didn’t know Laufeia’s birthday, she did know that today was her own birthday. Did they have the same birthdays? Whatever, that didn’t matter right now. Not when a Hogwarts letter was sitting right in front of her!

Quickly she snatched the letter from the owl and opened it:

…

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_  
_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_  
_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Ms. Raine,_  
      _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts_  
_School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all_  
_necessary books and equipment._  
      _Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no_  
_later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonogall  
Deputy Headmistress_

…

Cyrna was unaware of Prince offering a dead mouse to the owl as a ‘thank you’ for delivering the message, or the look of indulgence that Prince gave her once the owl was gone.

The next thing the Flamels heard, waking them from their sleep, was a loud whoop of joy followed by the thundering sounds of hasty clambering down the stairs.


	6. Decisions

Cyrna sprinted down the stairs, aching muscles forgotten, and rushed to the dining room to share the news with the Flamels. She halted as she flung open the tall mahogany doors; there was no one here. The velvet coloured drapes covering the high-arched windows had not yet been opened to let in the morning light. There were no dishes or food set on the table, and the creaks and groans from the wooden floor as she padded across the room barefoot seemed to ring much more loudly in the still of the cold morning air. Where was everyone?

She glanced at the ornate mantel clock that sat above the currently inactive fireplace.

6:05 a.m.

Ah. No wonder no one was down yet. Breakfast was usually at 7:30.

With her excitement slowly dissipating, the awareness of how stiff her body felt made itself known with vengeance. She hobbled over to one of the dining chairs, sat down heavily, and hoped that Perenelle would not be teaching her today. Cyrna rotated her shoulders and stretched, feeling weirdly satisfied at the quiet pops and clicks heard as she loosened her back muscles. She had moved on to head rotation exercises to alleviate her neck pain when she became aware of approaching footsteps.

Cyrna patiently waited for the rest of the household to show up, and within a few seconds, her wish was granted in the form of an irate Nicolas Flamel and a curious Perenelle Flammel with a familiar ball of fur following close at her heels.  

Still in his sleepwear, Nicolas had hurried down to find the cause of the morning disturbance. Nicolas was the sort who enjoyed the repetitiveness and the cyclical nature of his life, though when he had been younger, he had enjoyed spontaneity. Now, however, he had settled into a familiar routine for hundreds of years and was loath to change it. It was due to this that Nicolas felt slightly annoyed at being woken an hour before his usual schedule.

“You know that if you just wanted to start studying earlier, all you needed to do was ask, and I would have given you a few more tomes to add to your readings,” said Nicolas dryly with a hint of seriousness and annoyance. “No need to wake every living creature up with your shriek.”

Cyrna blanched at the thought of adding anything else to her workload.

“I’ll pass. Thanks,” said Cyrna just as dryly.

“Has something good happened?” asked Perenelle. Judging from the way her eyes sparked with suppressed enthusiasm, Cyrna had a vague notion that she had already guessed what had happened this morning.

“Yep,” Cyrna replied, reverting back to her old habit of popping the ‘p’ in her excitement. “I’ve received the acceptance letter from Hogwarts!” Grinning, she rushed on to ask, “Where can I get the owl to reply to the letter? Oh, and when can I go to Diagon Alley to get my stuff?”

Nicolas frowned in confusion. How did Cyrna know about Diagon Alley? He knew that he had not given any books to Cyrna that specifically mentioned that that was where the majority of students got their Hogwarts supplies.

Perenelle didn’t notice Cyrna’s slip up and answered, “Unfortunately dear, I don’t think that you can go there quite this moment…you see,” she hesitated, “Nicolas and I are a tad busy making preparations regarding a…particular package that we need to deliver to Dumbledore before summer starts.”

Nicolas watched Cyrna’s reaction carefully and his frown deepened when he noticed the understanding and regret that lit up her eyes as she politely replied to Perenelle, telling her that she would wait till Perenelle and himself were ready. He would need to have a talk with her as soon as possible—without Perenelle’s company.

Though he might have previously been wrong about Cyrna’s character, he felt certain that this time, Cyrna was definitely hiding something important.

* * *

 

As Perenelle left with Prince to the kitchens to prepare their breakfast, Nicolas moved towards the empty seat across from Cyrna. There was no point in postponing this conversation.

“I’ll just be blunt with you. Tell me, Cyrna, how did you know about Diagon Alley? And now when I think of it, when we first met, you asked me if Headmaster Dumbledore had contacted me…judging from your reaction to what Perenelle just told you, it seems as if you knew that this would happen—you know about the Philosopher’s Stone!” Nicolas exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise and panic as he made this realization, “Why do you know all this?”

Cyrna mentally swore at herself for her stupidity. Lulled by the Flamels into a sense of stability and comfort, she had gradually become less and less guarded with her words. Had she unintentionally and subconsciously given them, not just her respect, but also her trust? She was troubled at this thought. It was not like her to be reliant on others to survive. She had always been independent—whatever success she had reaped in her past life, had been a direct result of her abilities, no one else’s. Now, her carelessness would cost her her promise or her secret.

“Don’t make me doubt your word,” said Nicolas when he saw her hesitation. “I don’t trust lightly; Perenelle saw something in you that made her trust you, and just recently, I’ve started to see it too—It’s what prompted me to give you that Yule gift. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

“I’m glad that you have seen a reason to trust me,” began Cyrna in a clipped tone, “but don’t you dare attempt to guilt me into giving you this information.” Her eyes flashed with a steely glint and her heart began beating faster as she became aware that what she was about to say might setback her relationship with the Flamels, “I may owe you many things, but everyone has secrets that they want to keep—you have no right to demand or guilt me into sharing them.”

“No one, besides Albus, Perenelle, and I, should have known about the plans with the Philosopher’s Stone. The fact that you knew and pretended that you didn’t is concerning to put lightly,” Nicolas replied in a voice edged in suspicion, “You do understand the impact this knowledge could have on the Wizarding world, right? This isn’t the sort of information I can turn a blind eye to you knowing. I _need_ to know how you know and what you are going to do with it.”

Cyrna felt a bit of her indignance fade as she was reminded that the success of the plan hinged on its secrecy. She supposed that she could understand why Nicolas felt so upset, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to part with this particular secret. Once she told them about the books, would they ask for the future? Possibly. Did she trust the Flamels not to change the future once they knew? Not really. Right now, they were making the necessary preparations to give the Stone over to Dumbledore for safekeeping by stocking up on the Elixir of Life.

One of the points she had never been perfectly clear on in the books had been whether the Flamels would have been so accommodating with the plan to safe-keep the Stone if they had known that it would cause their deaths; they had only made their decision to destroy the Stone after it had become obvious (not just simple suspicion) that Voldemort had been after it. There was a difference between preparing for the worst-case scenario, the destruction of the Stone, while expecting that the probability of it happening was low or unexpected, and preparing for the worst-case scenario knowing that it would happen. Did the Flamels fall into the latter, or had they been making and storing the elixirs as an act of caution with the mindset that Dumbledore’s plan had a fair chance of success?

Cyrna guessed that she could tell them how she knew about the Stone without telling them the future events…but wouldn’t that also mean that she was to some degree, allowing them to die without doing anything? Technically, she knew that it had been the Flamels who had chosen to die, but if she opted not to tell them about the future, that would mean that she was forcing them into a situation in which they would choose death…

…actually, that a good thing…right?

Without her interference, the events of the first book would play out exactly the same way. She would know where the danger lay. She would be safe.

All she had to do was swear an oath that no one had told her about the plan, that the plan was still a secret, that she would never speak of it to anyone, and that she would not interfere with it. After, she was sure that she could somehow convince Nicolas, without lying, that he couldn’t know her secret as it was just too dangerous.

Cyrna anxiously gnawed on her lip and picked on the threads on her robes, a bad habit she had developed in her childhood when she was stressed.

She had always acted in her own best interest—never had any qualms in watching people fail, if it meant that she could succeed. Sure, if she could help with little to no cost to herself, she would, but altruism had always been a foreign and illogical concept to her. Now should be no different. Telling the Flamels about their future would put her own at risk. She could lose the advantage her knowledge gave her in this world.

Why then, did she feel so hesitant in putting the idea into action?

Was it the fact that the consequence of the other’s person failure was death? Cyrna’s fingers tensed as she came to this realization: the stakes were different in this world; they were much higher. Death had been a concept that only the terminally ill patients or the elderly entertained in 21st century America. However, here in this world, death as a consequence was infinitely more prevalent, especially during the two Wizarding Wars.

* * *

 

Nicolas watched with suspicion and a slight bit of concern when he saw Cyrna’s gaze take on a faraway look and when she began to subconsciously gnaw on her lip and pick at her robes. Noting the sudden tensing of her fingers, he had just been about to interrupt whatever internal struggle she was clearly having, when she spoke up.

“I swear upon my life that I will not knowingly endanger the Stone, nor will I tell anyone about it.”

Nicolas could only sit there stunned as Cyrna’s magic rose up in roar before settling down moments later, signifying that the oath was bound and functioning. He hadn’t expected her to swear an oath. Those things were dangerous, and he had repeatedly taught her to be wary of them. One careless word or phrase, and you were in for a lot of trouble that the unintentional oath would cause.

In the months that he had known Cyrna, she had always answered his questions in complete honesty, even when it was obvious that she had been reluctant to answer several of his questions. The fact that she was still unwilling to answer the “ _how_ ” to the question he asked, led him to believe that the answer was either very important or very personal to her. Perhaps it was just better to leave it be—she _had_ already promised that she wouldn’t interfere or endanger the plans.

And if nothing else, Nicolas had come to trust her word.

Nicolas released a quiet sigh of relief and relaxed into his chair now that the perceived threat to the Stone was gone. After a few minutes of tense and awkward silence with only the sounds of Cyrna’s nails picking her robes, Nicolas decided that it would be wise to leave the hall and head over to the kitchens to check on his wife, if for no other reason than to give Cyrna some time to calm down.

Just as he reached the exit, he heard a quietly spoken, “Wait.”

He stopped and turned around to face the only other occupant in the dining room, only to be met with a wide-eyed gaze that spoke of surprise. Had that word accidentally slipped out from her?

That surprise slowly turned into uncertainty as Cyrna continued on haltingly, “As for how I knew… just give me more time to make up my mind if I should tell you or not.”

He felt his eyes widen slightly in surprise at this response and hastened to earnestly reply, “No, no. You were right earlier. I really don’t have the right to all your secrets. No one does. You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want, just because you feel as if you owe me something for our hospitality. What we have given you, we have given freely—without strings attached.” Nicolas stressed, “Don’t let anyone guilt you into sharing any sort of information you don’t feel ready to give.”

Cyrna’s eyes flashed with a myriad of emotions before she offered a small smile. “Thank you, but I meant what I said,” her voice now becoming steadier and more confident, “I will sort this out. Just give me more time.”

Nicolas stilled. Whatever this information, it was definitely something very important. Not wanting tension to permeate the room again, he rallied and quickly shot a quick smirk at Cyrna’s direction. “That is great and all, but don’t forget to do the lessons and the readings I’ve assigned for you to do today. Just because you seemed so eager to start the day—waking us all up at 6,” he snorted derisively, “I’ve booked you an extra lesson with Perenelle.”

He expected a gasp of horror, having observed her muscle pains, or the neutral look that she seemed to have adopted these past months in response to his sarcasm or whatever unreasonable demands he had teasingly made to her. Instead, all he received was a weak smile and a pitched laugh that was so obviously faked.

As Nicolas headed to the kitchens, he wondered with a decent amount of worry just what secret Cyrna was harbouring.

* * *

 

Breakfast passed by with the Flamels’ usual chatter, and soon lunch did as well. Still, Cyrna was no closer to her decision.

She heaved a heavy sigh as she dragged herself up to her room to finish her work. Usually after lunch, Nicolas would have assigned practical lessons, however, he had for some reason cancelled them today and had instead told her to finish whatever readings she had left to do for the day.

It was hypnotizing, Cyrna thought as she glanced out her window and watched as large pieces of snowflakes gently floated down from the sky to accumulate on her windowsill. Having finished her second last tome, _A Compendium of Common Ingredients Found in Antidotes_ , she allowed her mind to wander back to her problem.

This time, her thoughts were clear and unjumbled. She was not being pressured for an answer, and there were no stray thoughts rushing through her mind as she had already contemplated both sides of the argument—to tell or not to tell. She knew that the logical path was not to tell and lower the risks of anything unexpected happening in year one.

Her fingers tapped in irregular beats on her desk as her conscience argued back telling her that if she allowed that to happen, then she would become exactly what she hated in Dumbledore—someone who would, however reluctantly, allow and plan for people to die for the ‘greater good’.

She had no issues with cultivating then taking advantage of people in her old world. If the person appeared to be of no specific use, she had never hesitated to ease herself out of whatever relationship had existed between them. That was pretty much how the business market worked. You don’t invest in things that don’t produce returns. But that situation was different from the one she was currently in. In this situation, if she wanted to keep the advantage of her foresight into the events, then she would be condemning the Flamels, by allowing the story to run its course, to death—that was more than just simply ‘using’ the Flamels. Not allowing them a choice, especially when they had offered her unconditional help, was something that just soured her conscience and morals.

She knew Nicolas had told her not to worry about the help that he and his wife had offered freely, but honestly, that didn’t do anything to erase the feeling of indebtedness that Cyrna felt. She willingly took advantage of people, but usually, she only did so when she could offer something in return to the relationship.

Like the saying of an eye for an eye, she lived her life under the slogan: _a favour for a favour_. She never really understood people who offered help without expecting anything in return, and she frowned upon those that continued to take without giving back.

And with that thought, she made her decision, and strangely, her heart felt lighter than it had felt for years despite the apparent risks the decision could cost her.

* * *

 

The fireplace was on and its flames flickered gently; the floating candles coupled with the setting sun painted a warm glow on the dining table that was filled with an assortment of foods. Cyrna eyed the roast lamb that Perenelle, with a knowing smile, had placed in front of her. Cyrna responded with a sheepish grin; it had only taken a few weeks for Perenelle to figure out that she was in love with roast meat. Being a student in college had meant that she was on a time limit and a budget when it came to things like cooking, so roasts had gradually become a delicacy to her.

“Happy birthday Cyrna,” said Perenelle as she took her seat.

“Yes, yes, happy birthday,” added Nicolas, hastily getting the mandatory congratulations out of the way so that he could eat.

Cyrna smiled politely and thanked them all the while feeling slightly weirded out by the fact that she was actually celebrating her birthday; as she had grown older, she had grown used to viewing her birthday as just another day—it wasn’t like she had been particularly grateful for being born into her dull life.

She reached up to feed a small chunk of fish to Prince who had yet to grow out of the habit of perching on her shoulder. “No birthday blessings from you?” she questioned affectionately as she scratched under his chin.

Prince purred happily at the attention and food his human gave him, and fondly nuzzled the side of his human’s head to show his pleasure. A lick on the tip of the nose was also added. After all, it was his human’s birthday—whatever that meant.

He felt himself being picked up, and then he was face to face with his owner.

“That’s the first time you’ve licked me!” Cyrna happily exclaimed.

He gave her _the look_ which for some strange reason, caused his human, always, to burst into soft peals of giggles. He didn’t understand what was so funny about his ‘ _obviously_ ’ and ‘ _of course, you dimwit_ ’ look. Other animals found it suitably intimidating; he guessed it was just his human being weird.

Dinner continued on with amicable conversation occasionally interrupting the comfortable silence. It wasn’t until dessert that Cyrna felt the need to address her resolution.

As Perenelle, with a flick of her hand, _accioed_ the slices of chocolate cake, Cyrna hesitantly spoke up, “Actually, there was something I wanted to tell the both of you.”

Nicolas stopped eying his slice of cake, and his expression turned serious as he recognized that she was possibly about to share the important secret. Perenelle read the tension in the atmosphere and kept quiet. Though she did not know what this was about, it must have been the cause for the expression that Nicolas had worn when he had found her in the kitchens preparing for breakfast.

Knowing that she had both of their undivided attention, she hurried on to act on her decision before she could chicken out and change her decision: “Nicolas asked me how I knew about the Philosopher’s Stone,” Cyrna paused, glanced at Perenelle, and shook her head sadly at the glint of surprise that made its way into her eyes. Sometimes, she thought, Perenelle was just too trusting. “Anyways,” Cyrna cleared her throat, “I’ve decided to tell you about my secret, one which I trust you will tell nobody.”

“Do you want us to swear an oath?” offered Nicolas quietly.

“No,” spoke Cyrna before she could think. She blinked confusedly at her own response. While she _did_ trust them to look out for her, it would have been safer for her if they swore an oath…

Slightly put-off by her own response, Cyrna continued on slower, “No, your word is good enough.”

She didn’t catch the soft smile that Nicolas directed at her nor the beaming look of joy that transformed Perenelle’s face.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I didn’t panic more than I should have when I arrived in this world, why I showed little wariness towards you after I knew who you were, why I didn’t seem weirded out by the idea of magic?” started Cyrna, “Well, that has to do with my secret: This world, this reality, the people I’ve met so far…you all existed in my old world as well—but you weren’t alive in the strictest sense. I know you, like how I know about the Stone, Dumbledore, Riddle, and the Boy Who Lived—just to name a few—as characters from a book series named after the protagonist, _Harry Potter_. I know what will happen to you and the Stone if you continue with your plans, and before I told you my secret, I knew with certainty the future of the key players of this world… so I feel as if I should give you an option; do you want to know what will happen to you and the Stone if you follow Dumbledore’s plan?”

Cyrna held her breath. She half hoped that they would reject her offer; the other half wished to share it, seeing that she had already told them the majority of her secret. _Mind as well get it over with_ , she thought to herself grimly.

* * *

 

Nicolas was astonished. This was big. Very big. No wonder she had seemed so stressed out in debating whether she should tell or not. Did he want to know? He thought uneasily to himself, he did.  He had always been terribly curious, and now, he somehow morbidly knew that his participation in this plan would result in his death. After teaching Cyrna for more than half a year, he knew her well enough to know that she would never share something of this scale for any other reason but death. He looked at Perenelle. Did she realize the likely consequences that would push Cyrna to act this way? No. She still had not realized yet, but her eyes conveyed to him that she would do as she had always done for the past hundred years—she would continue to follow his lead.

His eyes hardened with determination as he met Cyrna’s inquisitive gaze and spoke firmly, “No, I don’t need to know what happens to me or the Stone. From the way you phrased your question, I already have a fair idea of what will happen.” He hesitated, “But, can you tell me…what happens in the end? Will this plan help prevent Voldemort from rising?”

His breath caught in his throat when he saw Cyrna gaze at him, for an instance, with an emotion that was frighteningly close to pity before she returned to her sorrowful look.

Cyrna often showed tons of emotions to her cat, and while she did show them occasionally to him and his wife, it had always been in response to their actions, to their words, or to the situation. Never to themselves as a person. Nicolas had already accepted that Cyrna would never develop any connection with them the same way she could with her cat. He thought, despite his wife’s words, that she would never learn to sympathize.

His stoic heart thawed slightly at her expression despite the predicament he was in. Perhaps Perenelle was right. _Maybe humans could change for the good_. His lips twisted into a half-hearted smile as he realized that Cyrna probably hadn’t even realized that she had sympathized for a split second.

He continued to listen in detached amusement to Cyrna’s reply.

“This plan will do nothing to prevent Voldemort’s rising…he will rise again, it is fated to happen. However, this plan does delay his rebirth, which gives Harry more time to prepare; it’ll also make Voldemort easier to kill—once he has risen—compared to if he had managed to get his hands on the Stone… it’s never explicitly written what would have happened if you chose not to…you know…” said Cyrna feebly, respecting Nicolas’ wish to keep silent about what would happen to the Stone, him and his wife. “If you hide it really well after this year is over, it might not change the storyline,” finished Cyrna without much confidence.

* * *

 

In his bedroom, ready to turn in for the night, he caught Perenelle’s gaze and pensively asked, “Do you have any suspicions as to what will happen if we follow Albus’ plans?”

“We’ll die, won’t we?” said Perenelle softly as she lay down on the bed, “I didn’t really catch on until the end though. The poor child looked so guilty about what she was saying, that it just became obvious.”

The next moment was spent in silent contemplation, each with their own thoughts before the silence was shattered by Perenelle quietly stating, “I _will_ follow you even if you choose death Nicolas, and perhaps, this is the best choice we can make to contribute to the future war that Albus believes is coming. We have been alive for too long. It is unnatural.”

“Yes… it was strange to see my apprentice, who was once a teenager, grow into an old man.” Nicolas responded in a hushed mutter.

“There’s also the fact that Cyrna might lose her advantage if we deviate from the storyline so soon.”

“Yes, there is that as well,” Nicolas heaved a sigh of concern. He was well aware of the risks Cyrna had taken to give them this information, and though he would never admit it, both he and his wife knew that he had grown fond of her.

He had once chosen to save the world over his son. Now, he realized that he could choose to save both the world _and_ the child who he was gradually coming to view as his daughter. The decision was easy if he thought of it that way:

“I propose that we follow the storyline, down to every last detail that Cyrna can remember.”

The bedroom was dark with only the moonlight streaming from the windows as their source of light. The occasional tapping of the branches of a nearby tree on their window was often accompanied by the howling of the cold winter wind. It was strange to both the Flamels that this would be one of their last winters, but neither felt anxious or upset about this fact.

Perenelle’s mother had warned her when her husband had created the Stone that the beauty of life was in the fleetingness, the spontaneity, and the thrill of adventure. Though Perenelle did not regret living her unnaturally long life, she recognized that it had been a long time since she had felt the thrill of her mortality. Living so long… she hadn’t realized that she had changed so much over the years… knowing that you could spend eternity on the earth had eventually caused her to become detached, in some ways, in her interactions with others and with nature. Now that she realized that her time was finite, her eyes opened, and she beheld the beauty of ordinary things. She saw the world painted in brighter and sharper colours, and once again found joy in the simple things of nature, such as watching the snow float down in fluffy chunks from the sky to collect on the branches of the tree outside her window. She couldn’t remember the last time she had stopped to marvel at the beauty of life before Cyrna had arrived and brought some of the colours back. Perhaps it was for this reason that she had been so insistent on keeping her.

“In answer to your proposal, Nicolas… I agree.” Perenelle’s lips twisted into a content smile at her last thought before she fell asleep.

_Death as the next great adventure…that’s what you told me…right, mother?_


	7. A Trip to Diagon Alley

Cyrna’s eyes had been fixed unseeingly on the first page of the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ for the past hour, and after reading the same sentence for the fifth time, Cyrna felt ready to just _incendio_ the whole lot of tomes that she had chosen for herself to read.

“What the hell,” she moaned in frustration as she angrily chucked her quill across the room. She stood abruptly, toppling her chair, and strode over to her bed before flopping down in defeat; she dragged her arm to cover her eyes from the morning light that just seemed to damn cheerful for her current mood. Her fingers picked relentlessly at her nightgown as she thought of her current predicament:

This had been going on for far too long—it was not the first time that she had reread the same sentence multiple times, but it was the first time that she had experienced this consistently for four months.

She just couldn’t get her mind to focus on her tasks.

At first, she had simply decided to be patient and let whatever was happening run its course. By the third month, she had been determined not to let the circumstance get the better of her; but now, at the fourth month…she was ready to scream and cry in frustration.

_What is wrong with me!?_

Cyrna quickly flipped over as she thought in irritation, “ _Why can’t I concentrate on my work!?_ ” Trying to slam her fist on her pillows, she missed and hit the polished wood of the headboard instead. She swore and yanked her hand back to cradle it, trying to relieve the pain.

Nothing had been going her way these past months; she watched in despair as her plans slowly crumbled around her as she continued to fall behind in her studying schedule. Nicolas had noticed this, and though he acted as if he didn’t, Cyrna knew that he must have as the size of her current assigned readings were only half the amount it had been two months prior. He had always been uncomfortable with expressing concern, she thought with amusement, so this was probably the best he could do to help her current dilemma. Perenelle had noticed within the first month, and while it was unknown to Cyrna if she had shared her observations with her husband, she knew that Perenelle’s patience in teaching her wandless magic was definitely wearing thin.

Outside lessons, Perenelle was still the kind, understanding, elderly woman who had found and healed her; but as a teacher, Cyrna knew that she must have been disappointed; there was probably nothing more discouraging to a teacher as someone who did not improve. Thus when Perenelle, just last Monday, had pulled her to the side to tell her that lessons would be cancelled until she could concentrate again, she had accepted the news with shame before apologizing to her mentor for her lack of focus; then, she proceeded to wallow in her feelings of inadequacy for the next while.

Of course, Perenelle had not broken it to Cyrna quite that bluntly, in fact, she had said it as gently as possible; still, that was pretty much the message she had conveyed. After all, practising wandless magic without full concentration was not only a set up for failure but also a recipe for danger to both herself and the other residents of the mansion.

So as Cyrna leaned against her headboard with her injured arm lightly resting on her lap, she wondered just when things had begun to go so wrong.

Now that she thought about it, she realized that she didn’t actually have to think for too long because she already knew the answer. Always had. She had just been unwilling to recognize it: _It had begun on the first week of February when the Flamels had told her that despite knowing the consequence, they had decided to follow the storyline and the plan._

Her initial reaction had been relief. She felt happy that she had not been required to compromise either her promise or her safety. However, as the weeks went on, she found her mind continuously wandering back to the Flamels’ decision. She just simply couldn’t understand it. If she knew anything about the man who taught her for, now almost, a full year, it was that he was not very fond of Wizarding Britain. Cyrna did not know his past nor had she been interested—to her, Nicolas Flamel would always be the cranky, unparalleled genius that had saved her and had eventually obtained her full respect and reverence.

Antagonism and wariness defined Nicolas when they first met. He certainly had not wanted to give her a second chance; he had wanted her to leave, and if not for Perenelle’s kindness, she could easily picture the Flamels living another few years in solitude. Cyrna was certain that the cause of his behaviour stemmed from the issues that came along with the Philosopher’s Stone, and she knew that it would be logical to conclude that this was probably the reason why he had abandoned the world to live alone with Perenelle for hundreds of years.

_Why would he be willing to die for a world he’s given up on? Why would he die for a world that has wronged him?_

She wasn’t willing to die for this world, or for her past world—and they hadn’t even wronged her.

Cyrna shook her head in confusion. Altruism, in any form, was simply irrational. What was the point of saving the world if you died in the process? Was it for glory—to have your name and your heroic deed engraved in history? That sounded vain, besides, it wasn’t like you could reap the rewards or enjoy that satisfaction once you were dead. You would never be able to partake in the peace after the war.

A situation of high loss, and zero gain.

The worst scenario imaginable.

Well, Cyrna mentally backtracked, perhaps not _zero_ gain. She had heard of people sacrificing their lives for their children, their family, _for people they loved_ —to die so that those you loved could live.

It was a romantic notion, she supposed. Still not one that she could comprehend, but one where she supposed the motive was reasonable…however, this motive couldn’t be applied to the Flamels when all was said and done, right?

Surely everyone the Flamels cared for had already died, that was one of the cons to immortality. Perenelle told her that they lived in isolation and that no one, besides Dumbledore, had visited them. They had not bothered to visit anyone else either… so it wasn’t like they were dying to give someone they loved a better future… which lead Cyrna back to the start:

They willingly chose to die for a world that had wronged them.

Not understanding why Nicolas, a man she revered for his intelligence, brilliance, and logic, would make such an irrational decision, caused her mind to wander endlessly in circles, at the most unfortunate times, trying to crack the puzzle. There was also a part of her—a tiny part of her in the recesses of her mind and spirit—that was set on edge by Nicolas’ decision simply because it was no longer certain that the impending change, caused by the Flamels’ death, would be a desired change.

* * *

 

It was now the second week of June, and though Cyrna had somehow managed to review all the first-year textbooks for Hogwarts, she was no closer to understanding Nicolas’ decision. She had replayed various arguments countless times in her head, she had tried to look at it from different perspectives, hell, she had even managed to find and read a book that proposed several theories—notably the _kin-selection theory_ —to explain altruism, but she remained stuck in the puzzle.

The kin-selection theory had seemed the most logical to her; after all, it proposed that altruism was determined by a mathematical formula. Math she could understand, but she didn’t think it applied to this situation. Though she didn’t perfectly understand why she felt this way, she just knew that their willingness to sacrifice was not based on some cold calculations that they had worked out, but rather, due to a nobler emotion that she couldn’t comprehend. All in all, any arguments she created simply led her back to the start.

Still, Cyrna persisted in her independent search for the answer. _In discovering the answer by myself_ , she thought, _I’ll have a more intrinsic understanding—something much more than the simple head knowledge I would receive if I asked Nicolas ‘why’._

_If I understand this mentality… then surely, I’ll be closer… one step closer to sympathy._

 

* * *

 

Strands of raven-coloured hair fluttered gently in the breeze that entered from the opened Victorian glass windows whose velvet drapes were pulled back by a simple yet elegant golden cord embellished tastefully with small pieces of garnets. The silhouette of a child leaning against a tall, dusty bookshelf that stretched from the ground to the ceiling, gazing out the window, was darkened by the warm hues of magentas and oranges that were awash the normally cerulean summer sky.  The soft glow from the ornate waxed candles that rested on a nearby antique writing desk coupled with the last golden rays of the sunset lit up the kind face of Perenelle Flamel who had come to the library in search of her missing student.

“Cyrna,” spoke Perenelle quietly.

The figure shifted slightly, reacting to its name, and slowly turned around to face the speaker.

“Perenelle,” she hesitated, “Has Dumbledore left with the package already?”

Perenelle stood in silence as she attempted to read the emotions that flashed quickly through Cyrna’s eyes, and found, to her surprise, that it seemed as if Cyrna didn’t actually want to hear the answer. She gave a slight smile before speaking, “The plan is in motion.”

“Oh… I see.”

She watched with compassion as Cyrna’s expression fell for a moment before returning to a neutral look. _Does she realize that her subconscious betrays her?_

Cyrna felt strange as another short, unpleasant pang, similar to the one she felt just under five months ago, coursed through her body at these words, and she suppressed with vengeance any thoughts questioning why it was better for the Flamels to die. “ _Because you need whatever advantage you can get in this damn world, you dimwit_ ,” she scolded herself half-heartedly. She hurriedly gathered her composure as she brushed off those irrational thoughts before asking Perenelle the question she had been wondering about ever since Perenelle had found her at this hour:

“Why are you here? Not that you can’t be,” Cyrna corrected hastily. “But it’s a bit strange for you to seek me out in the hours after dinner, and I also don’t have any more lessons with you at this time,” she added.

“It’s about the lessons. I’ve decided to add them back,” replied Perenelle, back straightening slightly as she took her teacher-stance.

“I still can’t—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve given you months to get your focus together, but now, I’ve realized that my time to teach you is finite. Your magic has been growing stronger and stronger as your physical body has healed, and presently, your magic is almost constantly tangible in the air. It surrounds you like a warm blanket and is extremely visible in the eyes of the skilled wizard or witch.”

Cyrna’s eyes widened slightly in understanding.

“Yes,” Perenelle concluded noting her student’s reaction, “as you’ve figured out, it is dangerous to walk around the Wizarding World with that level of magic left unmastered and unhidden; you’ll attract all sorts of attention—including the wrong kind. You’ve got to be able to hide a portion of your magic when you enter Hogwarts… unless you want to garner attention?”

Cyrna furiously shook her head.

“As I thought,” sighed Perenelle as she focused on the determined crystal eyes that gazed back at her. “I’ve already spoken to Nicolas, and he has agreed to hand his time over to me. You’ll be doing practicals, and I’ll have you mastering the ability to hide your magic before we step a foot out this mansion. I’m not letting you go anywhere populated or anywhere near the children at Hogwarts with so little control over your magic, so you’ll just have to bear with muscle pains for the next few weeks until you develop control.” Perenelle’s eyes lost all the usual gentleness as it took on a steely glint, “Do you understand?”

Cyrna nodded vigorously. It had been a while since she had experienced Perenelle in her role as a mentor, and let’s just say that Cyrna was left suitably intimidated at the thoughts of what was to come.

“Then, your training starts tomorrow,” Perenelle said, pleased with Cyrna’s response. Just as quick as she had become the mentor, she dropped her teacher persona, and beamed an excited smile before bidding Cyrna, “goodnight!”

“Goodnight…” echoed Cyrna weakly in response as she was once again left alone in her quiet sanctuary with nothing but dusty old tomes surrounding her, all the while feeling slightly off-kilter from the abrupt mood change of one Perenelle Flamel.

As promised by Perenelle, the next few weeks were hell. The first two weeks of July were spent with constant muscle pains, and by the last day of July, she had managed to master the basic control necessary to allow Perenelle to let her out. Perenelle was amazed at the speed that Cyrna was capable of picking up basic wandless magic control once her mind was set and focused on the task. Within one month she had learned what she had failed to accomplish for two months when she had been unfocused. “What drove her to focus?” she wondered.

Cyrna grimaced and shivered at the thought of the stress that she had placed on herself this past month. She had managed to suppress her thoughts about Nicolas’ decision by throwing herself into non-stop work. If she had a choice, she would have preferred to take a bit more time with her lessons. Just less stress. But that wasn’t an option if she wanted to meet Harry Potter.

She had a schedule to keep.

 

* * *

 

“Are you ready?” asked Perenelle anxiously as she clucked and scuttled around Cyrna frantically like a mother hen, “Do you have your pouch of galleons?”

“Yes, I—” began Cyrna.

“Your portkey there and your portkey back?”

“Yes—"

“Oh! Do you remember the words to activate the portkey? Do you have your list of what you need to buy? Oh, what happens if you get lost! Are you sure you—”

“Dear Merlin, Perenelle!” exclaimed Nicolas, exasperated. “Cyrna can handle herself out there. She’s an adult, not some child that requires fussing over! You’ve trained her well, she’ll be able to hide her magic. She knows the details of Diagon Alley from the books, so I presume that she’ll be able to find her way around?” Nicolas’ gaze shifted to Cyrna for confirmation.

“Yes, I should be fine.”

“And if something happens?” prompted Nicolas to appease his wife’s worry.

“I’ll portkey back immediately,” finished Cyrna calmly.

“We could always come with you! I’ll just grab several Polyjuice Potio—” started Perenelle.

“No, no. Really. It’s fine. I’ll have Prince with me,” reassured Cyrna. Having been cooped up in the mansion for so long with the same company, and after having endured the torture from the training Perenelle had given her until the last day of July, she was ready to just take some time off to relax by herself. Alone. Well, as alone as one could be when followed by a fluffy white ball of fur.

“And there you have it,” finished Nicolas to Perenelle as he opened the tall mahogany entrance doors with a flick of his wand. The afternoon summer sunlight streamed in through the doors, momentarily blinding Cyrna with its brightness. Today was the perfect day for some time alone, she thought with an excited grin once she had regained her vision and had taken in the beautiful weather and the happy chirrups of the small sparrows as they chased each other across the grassy fields. Stepping through the door, the breeze playfully danced along the hems of her robes, lifting them slightly off the ground, before releasing its hold, allowing them to fall back into place.

“Come along now, Prince,” said Cyrna cheerfully as she stretched her arms out as an invite.

Without any second thought, Prince hopped into his human’s arms and quickly curled himself into the most comfortable position. His human rarely ever offered to carry him, so he was certainly not going to turn down an offer for being pampered by whatever momentary burst of affection had overtaken his human. He purred in contentedness. Initially, he had wondered if he had made the right choice in choosing this human to be his. There had been a disturbing lack of pats and attention given to him in the beginning; of course, his human—as expected of his chosen, he thought proudly—had stepped up her performance after he had given a couple of plaintive mews accompanied by desolate eyes whenever the elderly couple had been present in the same room as his human.

As he lay cuddled safely in his human’s arms, watching as she touched the silver bracelet on her wrist and uttered, “Diagon Alley,” he reflected back on how lonely his life had been before she had saved him. He had not noticed it then—being too used to solitude, but now… now that he had experienced such kindness, he knew that he would not be able to go back to living the life of a stray. So as he felt the strange sensation of being pulled somewhere behind his navel, he swore, with all the innocence and gratitude a young cat could have, that he would do his utmost to become a familiar that would make his human proud.

 

* * *

 

Feeling slightly nauseous as she opened her eyes, Cyrna let out a relieved sigh when she saw a tiny, grubby-looking pub sitting in front of her. _The Leaky Cauldron_ , she thought with satisfaction, _it’s just as I had imagined from the books._

Quickly, she double-checked to see if her magic was tightly under her control. It was.

Just as she touched the door handle, she decided to check once again—just to be certain. It was still under control. Great, she thought as she cracked the door open and quietly slipped into the bar.

No Harry Potter.

Better head over to the next possible destination where he could be, she thought as she tugged her hood on tighter and silently weaved through the shadows, determined not to draw any attention to herself. Cyrna held her breath until she had successfully slipped out into the small, walled courtyard at the back of the bar.

Her fingers shook minutely in excitement as she reached out her hand to tap the dilapidated brick wall three times, “Three up, then two across, then…” She watched with no small amount of amazement as the bricks she touched, quivered, and a small hole, starting from the middle of the wall, appeared before it grew wider and wider—forming _the_ archway she had dreamed of stepping through multiple times in her childhood.

Prince looked up at his human when he felt the arms that had been holding him tighten. His blue eyes curiously observed an emotion lighting up her eyes and a glassy sheen of tears coating them as she gazed at the cobbled street that was lined with an assortment of boutiques.

Cyrna’s heart thudded loudly in her chest as she took small steps towards the archway. Her tentative steps soon lengthened, her heart started to beat even faster, and before she knew it, she was running full speed with the widest smile on her face past the archway into the world of Harry Potter. Any thoughts of remaining hidden took a temporary leave from her mind as she scampered around the streets, exploring the stores with childish wonder and joy.

 _This. This was the world of Harry Potter she had grown up loving as a child_.

It had hit her multiple times when she was in Devon with the Flamels that she was stuck in the world of Harry Potter, but perhaps, because they had been unfamiliar characters in the series, it had not struck that deeply in her. But here, in one of the most iconic locations of the series, she could no longer deny it: _She had truly been reincarnated into the world of Harry Potter_.

This thought dampened her excitement slightly, and she remembered the task at hand:

Find Harry Potter. Introduce yourself. Establish some sort of acquaintance, and if possible, friendship, with him.

Right, that meant the first thing she had to do was find _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_. She had ruled out meeting Harry in the Gringotts, with Hagrid being by his side and the naturally suspicious goblins peering down her shoulder and what not. Having already missed Harry in the Leaky Cauldron, she could only hope that she was not too late to meet him at Madam Malkin’s after spending an unknown amount of time loitering in various stores.

Imagine her surprise at her luck when she spotted a young boy with sleeked-back platinum hair and pointed chin strut arrogantly out a store that was just two stores down from where she stood. Cyrna quickly hastened towards the pale boy’s direction, and just as she ran past him, cold grey eyes met hers in a fleeting gaze, and a smug superior smirk stretched across his face before they continued their separate ways.

Cyrna rolled her eyes at Draco Malfoy’s attitude as she stopped in front of the store to take a couple of seconds to fix her appearance so that it wouldn’t look as if she had sprinted all the way to get here. _Ugh, children. I’m dealing with children and their petty issues of superiority and pride_. _What joy the next few years at Hogwarts will be_ , she thought sardonically with a grimace.

Now having evened out her breath, she opened the door to find that Harry Potter had just finished his measurements and was sitting on a small chair waiting patiently for Madam Malkin to bring out his robes. The sound of wind-chimes echoed quietly in the store as Cyrna turned to gently shut the door, and Madam Malkin poked her head out from the backroom having heard the sound of a next customer.

“Hello! How can I help you today?” she asked cheerfully, though with crispness befitting of one who worked on a hurried schedule.

“I just wanted to get the uniform for my first year of Hogwarts,” _remember to act like a child_ , thought Cyrna to herself as she shot, what she knew would look like, an excited grin filled with childish innocence to the shopkeeper.

“Of course my dear,” gushed the shopkeeper as she gazed at the slight figure of a young girl with raven hair and beautiful crystal blue eyes, that were filled endearingly with the same childish excitement that she remembered feeling when she had been her age. “Let the cat down from your arms and step right up onto this stool—Oh, Mr. Potter, you wouldn’t mind terribly if I did my measurements on her first before grabbing the robes for both of you from the back room?”

“It’s no problem, ma'am,” replied Harry shyly, feeling the weight of the attention settle on him.

“Perfect,” said Madam Malkin with a delighted smile.

It only took a handful of minutes before Madam Malkin efficiently completed the measurements for her newest customer and rushed off, once again, to the back of the store, saying, “It’ll be just a moment!”

Before Cyrna knew it, the shopkeeper was gone, leaving an awkward silence in the wake of her departure. Cyrna had always been one of those socially awkward people when it came to initiating a conversation that had nothing to do with work. If someone started it, then sure, she’d be able to keep the flow of the conversation going, but, she had never been very good at starting small talk.

Cyrna stepped down from the stool, scooped Prince into her arms, and turned to Harry, determined to start a conversation—she technically _was_ the adult in this situation after all.

“First year at Hogwarts too?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Harry.

There was another bout of awkward silence as Cyrna realized that neither she nor Harry was much of a talker. Well, to hell with small talk, she thought. Let’s just get straight to introductions.

Cyrna gave a nervous giggle that seemed to be appropriate for this situation before walking over and sticking her hand out. “I’m Cyrna Raine, half-blood, and this,” here she gestured with a tilt of her head towards her cat before returning her gaze to the emerald eyes, “is Prince, my familiar.”

“Oh. I’m Harry. Harry Potter,” he replied. His eyebrows scrunched up in slight confusion at the unfamiliar term that the girl with crystal eyes had used, but primarily, he wondered about the lack of reaction his name had had on this girl—what was her name again? Right. Cyrna. She seemed like a nice person, unlike the other boy with the pale, pointed face… and he was curious; Hagrid had told him that he was famous. Maybe the girl didn’t know who he was? He relaxed. Maybe he wouldn’t need to pretend to be someone who knew what was going on. He didn’t understand much of what had happened on his trip so far with Hagrid to Diagon Alley, but he did know that as “ _the Boy Who Lived_ ,” he had been expected to have some sort of knowledge on the Wizarding World. Since Cyrna didn’t seem to know who he was…

“What’s a half-blood?” Harry asked after he had introduced himself. He was curious to know more about this strange new world that he was, apparently, a part of.

Cyrna’s eyes glinted slightly in triumph, before returning to polite interest, as Harry picked up the information she had laid out in her introductions for him to ask about, thus continuing their conversation.

“Basically it’s when there has been a muggle in your family line,” she shrugged indifferently and remembered the first memory she had received from Laufeia, “my mother wasn’t a witch.” There. A true but misleading sentence. She wasn’t too sure if she wanted to lie so soon after meeting Harry. People said that lies weren’t conducive towards a good relationship, so, Cyrna decided, it was better to just give misleading statements, which were much easier for you to correct, as opposed to a lie.

“Well, they were a witch and wizard for me,” said Harry.

“Oh, did either of your parents have any muggles in their family line?”

“Um,” thought Harry for a while, “I don’t really know about their family line, but Aunt Petunia doesn’t have magic, so she is a muggle?” he trailed off uncertainly when he realized just how little he knew about his own parents. This was something that had felt strange to him when he stepped into the Wizarding World. Almost everyone knew more about his parents than he knew about them.

Cyrna gave Harry a patient smile before she answered, “She could also be a squib—that’s a non-magical person who has at least one magical parent,” said Cyrna when she took note of Harry’s confusion. “Your parents, since you know that they were both magical, could have either been both Muggle-borns, both half-bloods, both pure-bloods, or a mix of anything in between. So, either way, you’d at least be a half-blood.”

Harry listened carefully to the mini-lecture he had been subjected to, absorbing as much information as he could about this world. He had just been about to ask her what a Muggle-born was when Madam Malkin came hurrying out of the back room with two sets of uniform trailing in the air after her. Harry didn’t think he would ever stop being surprised at the things magic could do as he gaped at the floating fabric.

“Three sets of plain black work robes, one plain black pointed hat, one pair of dragon hide gloves, and one black winter coat with silver fastenings for each of you?” Madam Malkin asked as she reconfirmed her customers’ order.

 _What had been the order again?_ Harry wondered as he reached down to pat his pockets for the slip of paper Hagrid had given to him before he had entered the store. His hand had just touched the paper when he heard Cyrna reply, “Yes. That’s correct.”

Harry awkwardly took his hand back out as he shuffled towards Madam Malkin to pay for his robes. 34 galleons total was handed to the shopkeeper before both children exited the shop.

“Have yer got yer stuff, Harry?” boomed a loud voice belonging to a man that was twice the height and five times the width of an average wizard. He carried two large ice-creams in one hand, and his brown bushy beard curved up as its owner gave a huge grin. “And who’s the new friend that yeh’ve made?” he asked when he noticed Cyrna following Harry out the shop.

“Oh, this is Cyrna,” he said with a smile to Hagrid, “she’s going to go to Hogwarts too!”

“Hello, sir!” Cyrna greeted with the same childish excitement and innocence she had given to Madam Malkin.

“No need ter call me sir,” Hagrid guffawed, “A friend o’ Harry is a friend o’ mine.” He reached out with his free hand to grasp Cyrna’s and shook it heartily. “Call me Hagrid. I’m the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts this year.”

“Nice to meet you,” responded Cyrna with a forced grin, her mask somewhat slipping in the face of the half-giant’s overwhelmingly loud and warm greeting.

Thankfully, it seemed that neither Harry nor Hagrid had noticed her momentary slip-up.

 

* * *

 

Cyrna sat patiently in Fortescue’s as Harry and Hagrid finished up their ice cream. Her mind had been drifting away from the conversation as she watched the fluffy white summer clouds move slowly across the baby-blue sky. It really was the perfect weather, she thought, as she slowly ran her fingers through Prince’s fur.

She was shaken out of her daydream at the sound of her name.

“Cyrna, we’re going to buy some quills and parchment. Want to come?” asked Harry.

Cyrna shivered at the thought of more stationary. There was already more stationary than was necessary in the mansion—Nicolas had a little storage dedicated to parchment and a huge collection of quills just sitting among the dust and cobwebs in a shadowed corner of the library, waiting to be used. As much as she loved binging on stationary purchases, she was not about to waste her money on the first day of shopping for things that were not necessary. Buy the essentials first.

“Nope, I’ll pass. I just have so much parchment at home—I can’t buy more without feeling bad,” explained Cyrna apologetically, reminding herself to temper her speech into simpler words that a child was likely to say. “I’m going over to Flourish and Blotts to buy my textbooks next, and I’ll probably stay there for a couple of hours before going home today.”

“I’ll be getting my textbooks after, right, Hagrid?”

“Right. So we’ll meet yeh later at the bookstore after our quick stop fer parchment and ink.”

Hagrid herded Harry out, and soon Cyrna was left alone with Prince in beautiful silence. She set Prince on the ground, and stretched her legs, trying to get circulation back since her cat had been sitting on her lap for a solid fifteen minutes.

Prince gave a small unhappy “mreow” at the feeling of being settled on the ground.

“Sorry, Prince,” said Cyrna as she smiled amusedly, “You’ll have to walk on your own for the rest of the day.”

Prince gave a dejected huff before he followed his human out the sweet-scented shop into the cobblestone street. A short moment later, his human entered another store that smelled strongly like the library in the mansion where his human usually spent most of her time. His human would not be leaving this location for a while, Prince thought, as he ran over to the cushioned seats that were on the shadowed edge of the bookstore. He hoped onto an empty one and was prepared to sleep for at least four hours when he heard a quiet yelp from the stranger seated on his left.

He looked up in annoyance and met the gaze of curious blue eyes, framed by white lashes, that in his opinion, were a shade lighter than his and, he thought proudly, nowhere near as pretty as his human’s. Prince decided to ignore her as he shifted on the cushion to find a comfortable position to sleep. He had almost successfully fallen asleep when he felt a hesitant hand pet him. Immediately, Prince sprang from his seat on the couch with a hiss and he gave an irritated growl at the stranger that dared to touch his fur without permission.

“Prince!” yelled Cyrna in alarm as she hurried across the bookstore to the origin of the sound. _He hasn’t growled at anyone for ages_.

She found Prince near the feet a pale-skinned girl—sickly pale so that her skin was almost translucent. His tail was puffed up, his ears were flattened, and he looked as if he was about to pounce on the white hand that was approaching his face. Oh shit, this wasn’t good Cyrna thought as she dropped the eight books she had been carrying in her arms and lunged for her pet.

She grabbed on to Prince just in time and wrestled to secure her hold on her cat. “Prince,” she hissed, “calm down!”

Prince’s ear flicked towards the familiar sound of his human’s voice and he realized that the hands which held him belonged to Cyrna. The white hand which had been slowly approaching his face had retracted as its owner now watched his human warily. He gave another growl for good measure before he snuggled back into the familiar arms.

Cyrna was about to ask the pale-skinned girl what had happened when she realized that the shop had fallen into silence. All the customers had been watching the scene take place and the store manager was heading slowly towards them with an unpleasant expression on his face.

The customers continued watching in anticipation, not wanting to miss the grouchy store manager tear the two children into pieces with his verbal flaying for disturbing the silence. It wasn’t as if most of them had anything better to do; mind as well sit back and enjoy the show.

_No matter which world I’m in, some things just don’t change, do they? It’s a wonder how some people can show so much sympathy for someone they love, yet, are capable of being completely apathetic—and to some degree—even capable of deriving enjoyment in a stranger’s misfortune._

Irritated at this paradox that she couldn’t understand, Cyrna rose from the ground and gave a chilling glare to everyone that was staring. “The drama is over. There is nothing to look at,” she bit out coldly.

The typical adults of the wizarding population would never have bothered to take a child seriously, but there was a quiet glimmer in Cyrna’s crystal eyes that was eerily reminiscent of the repressed flames of untamed blue fire that would, without warning, spring to life and ruthlessly devour its prey, leaving nothing but its ashen remains behind.

 

* * *

 

A tall thin man with sallow skin and a large hooked nosed observed the proceedings quietly from a shadowed spot on the second floor of the bookstore.

He knew power when he saw it.

Thin lips curled into a vindictive smirk as the man watched with a twisted sense of amusement as the nosy customers, who had done nothing to help the situation between Miss Greengrass and the animal, averted their gaze one by one when met by the eyes of the raven-haired child.

Silently, he thought to himself about how miserable and hectic the new year of Hogwarts would be. Most of the children of the Death Eaters would be enrolled. There was this girl whose power, despite her pathetic attempts to hide it, had been visible to him in her moment of carelessness when she had startled at the cat’s first growl.

Finally, Potter would be there.

He would have to see those eyes on _that_ face again.

Well, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, he thought, his smirk widening into a malicious grin. The son of the man who had bullied and tormented him was coming…

He would protect Potter for Lily. He had given his word.

But that didn’t mean he had to treat him well. Ignoring the niggling part of his mind reminding him that Harry was also Lily’s son, he allowed his mind to focus solely on a thought formed by years of bitterness:

 _Vengeance on James Potter… oh, how sweet it will be_.

The shadow of Severus Snape slipped away, leaving none the wiser of his disappearance from the bookshop.

 

* * *

 

Harry Potter walked into Flourish and Blotts with a bounce in his step, excited to show the colour-changing bottled ink that he had just bought to his newest friend, only to hear a regal voice proclaim, “ _You_ , a lowly merchant, would _dare_ to scold _me_ , the heiress of the Greengrass family?”

The quiet bookstore was instantly filled with rapid hushed mutterings at this statement.

“ _She’s_ the heiress?”

“… _plain-looking_ …no wonder why…”

“… the Sacred Twenty-Eight…”

Harry caught bits and pieces of the customers’ speculations as he made his way around the bookshop, trying to find Cyrna. To his surprise and dread, he found her standing right beside the blue-eyed brunette who seemed to be the current centre of attention from the mutterings he had heard. Strangely, there was no crowd surrounding them; he could tell that the other customers _were_ listening in, though they did not stare. In fact, he gave a slight frown of confusion, it appeared as if they were staring determinedly at everything but the scene that was taking place.

He was about to approach his friend when a stout middle-aged man with a balding head and a pig-like face, which was beaded with sweat that trickled down to his finely trimmed moustache, suddenly gave a low jerky bow to the strange-looking brunette. ‘ _Why does she have white lashes but brown hair? Aren’t the colours usually supposed to match?_ ’ he thought as he stepped forward and gave a small wave to Cyrna who gave a quick smile back before focusing on the portly shopkeeper who was now blubbering some apology:

“I’m terribly sorry Miss Greengrass, I really just didn’t recognize you, your parents didn’t ever release any picture of you, how was I supposed to know who you are? I—” he stuttered nervously to a stop at the narrowed glare of the heiress.

“Did you just place the blame on my parents for your idiocy?” she asked in a deceptively sweet voice as her eyes sparked with unmasked anger.

“No! Of course not!” he hastily denied.

“You wouldn’t want me to report this back to my parents, _would you_?” she purred dangerously as the anger in her eyes changed into a predatory gleam.

“No, please don’t,” cried the shopkeeper who moments ago had been feeling ecstatic at the thought of tearing the annoying children’s ego into shreds. Oh, how he regretted it now. “I’ll do anything, please don’t tell. Besides, I wasn’t scolding you… yes, yes, ... it was the useless girl with the cat! She’s who my reprimand was meant for!”

“That ‘useless’ girl”, she sneered, “ _is my friend_.”

Harry noticed a short flicker of surprise then understanding flash in Cyrna’s eyes as her lips pulled into a bright smile directed towards the shopkeeper.

“Yes,” she began excitedly, “Daphne and I had plans to meet up in the bookstore so we could quickly purchase our first-year textbooks together before heading over to the apothecary, two blocks down, for potion ingredients!” Her happy smile stuttered to a pause before turning into a slight frown, “Well, that _was_ the plan, but we’ve gotten held up here, haven’t we, Daphne?”

Harry watched as Cyrna lifted an eyebrow and gave a significant look to the brunette who answered with a quick mischievous smile and a look of respect.

“Wait, but your cat, it attacked her!” spluttered the merchant, “There’s no way you knew each other before you entered the store!”

“Really,” Daphne gave a delicate sniff, “You insult my parents, my friend; you’ve put me behind schedule—oh, my mother will be _most_ displeased—and now you want to remind me of that traumatic experience?” She gave a small shiver. “You’re irredeemable.”

With a flick of her hair and a tilt of her chin, she grabbed Cyrna’s wrist and prepared to march out the store. “Come, let’s tell mother and father what an utter waste of space this shopkeeper is.”

Harry watched, eyes wide, mouth forming a small ‘o’, as the strange girl—that he was sure Cyrna had not met before—headed towards the exit with his friend by her side. Realizing he was about to be left behind, he quickly ran past the terrified shopkeeper.

“Cyrna! Wait up!” he called as he reached her side. “Who is s—”

An extremely pale hand muffled his last word before it returned to its owner’s side. “Quiet,” hissed the voice on the other side of Cyrna. He looked to find himself levelled with eyes that reminded him of the clear blue skies that spoke of the freedom he had longed for as he slaved away with his chores in Privet Drive. He didn’t too dwell long on this musing as the panicked voice of the shopkeeper spoke up.

“Wait. Let me fix this!” he pleaded.

The blue eyes blinked away from him as its owner turned towards the man who was now grovelling on the ground. “What are you offering?” she asked coldly.

“You said you were going to Hogwarts, and that you needed the textbooks, right?” he stammered, “I’ll give you the full set, for free!”

“No,” answered Daphne without hesitation, “make that three full sets.”

“Three!?”

“Yes,” she smirked, “One for me and one for each of my friends whose time you have wasted.”

“But that’s worth—”

“No? I guess, we _will_ be making that visit to my parents then,” she replied calmly as she inspected her nails.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll give them to you!” the shopkeeper quickly shouted.

Daphne smirked victoriously as the books were handed to her. “ _Pleasure doing business with you_ ,” she said with false civility before she exited the shop with her two ‘friends.’

 

* * *

 

This was how Cyrna and Harry found themselves outside the shop, clutching the bag containing the full set of first-year books without having spent a Knut. Daphne had chattered for a while with Cyrna after exiting the shop before she politely excused herself, saying that she couldn’t be in the sun for too long.

The situation between her and Prince was never acknowledged. No verbal apologies from either side were made.

It was not necessary.

This favour from Daphne, Cyrna knew, was probably the Slytherin’s way of apologizing as well as their way of extending a possibility for a relationship, whether it be as acquaintances with common interests or as friends. _A favour for a favour_. They were a house she felt she could understand.

After a quick stop at the Apothecary where they paid for the necessary ingredients and equipment, and after Hedwig was presented to Harry, who stammered out unending thanks, Hagrid lead his two charges to the last stop: a narrow and shabby shop with a rustic sign written in peeling gold letters hanging on a plain, unassuming door.

 _Ollivanders._ _I better wait outside. Who knows what the old man will say when he sees me… better not risk Harry knowing anything of significance about me._

“Actually,” Cyrna piped up with an apologetic face, just as Harry reached the doorknob, “change of plans. I’ve just realized that I need to return home—I’m already five minutes late!”

“Oh. Um. Well, I guess I’ll see you sometime later in Hogwarts?” asked Harry hopefully.

“Earlier, actually!” said Cyrna with a broad grin. “I’ll find you on the Hogwarts Express!”

Cyrna waved her goodbye energetically until Harry and Hagrid disappeared from her view into the store before touching the charmed-invisible minuscule vial filled with scarlet liquid that was attached to a chain hanging around her neck. She was ready to return to the Flamels.

“I guess I’ll be getting my wand another day,” she muttered softly to Prince who had fallen asleep in her arms before speaking the activation word she had hurriedly chosen, just before she had left the mansion, for the portkey:

“ _Home_ ”


	8. Soul of the Wand

“Is the ‘Raine’ family known in the Wizarding World?” questioned Cyrna while she chewed on a piece of steak slowly, savouring every bit of flavour that spread deliciously across her mouth. Perenelle really was an amazing cook—just like her mother.

A small twinge that she had never felt before when thinking of her parents coursed through her.

 _What was that?_ she wondered, _do I miss them after all?_

That was as far as she got on her musings; her emotions took a turn to elation when she heard Perenelle reply, “No, not really. I’m sure there are wizards with that name, but no one famous—it doesn’t carry any particular significance or weight in Wizarding politics, if that is what you are wondering.”

“Why do you ask?” questioned Nicolas curiously as he watched with barely concealed revulsion at the vegetables that Perenelle was pilling onto his plate.

A pleased grin, heavily saturated with satisfaction, spread across Cyrna’s face. “To check if my background story is plausible,” she answered brightly, “You see, I realized that if I didn’t want to attract attention, whether it be good or bad, then it would probably be best for me to be a half-blood. Of course, the validity of that statement when possibly questioned under Veritaserum is also a bonus.”

They continued to eat in amicable silence with only the occasional sounds of cutlery against dishes and Prince’s happy purrs as he devoured his salmon. It was a while later that Perenelle asked Cyrna a question she had been pondering:

“But what does this have anything to do with your surname?”

A knowing look appeared on her husband’s face at this question. _Really_ , thought Perenelle wryly, _the way those two think and plan are eerily similar._

“She wants to check that her name doesn’t belong to anyone well-known, so she can live out her school years in blissful obscurity,” Nicolas snorted as he rolled his eyes and picked at his vegetables. An amused gleam then entered his eyes as he continued, “she doesn’t want to change her name because she probably realizes the host of issues that would cause.”

“Oh?” wondered Perenelle as she tilted her head questioningly.

“Lies have a terrible habit of catching up to you at the worst possible time,” Cyrna replied, finishing off Nicolas’ thought. She shrugged indifferently, “It would also be more difficult to respond to a name I’m not familiar with—someone is bound to notice eventually, and that would definitely lead to… problems, to put lightly.”

“The best sort of lies _are_ the ones that are closest to the truth,” agreed Nicolas with an approving twitch of his lips. “So what’s your story going to be?”

“Half-blood from a decently well-off family where the father has a typical desk-job and the mother owns a tiny flower shop in Devon,” answered Cyrna promptly.

A slight furrow made its way onto Nicolas’ brows. “Why not claim to be a transfer student from America? That story would excuse you for any careless errors that you might make on the common knowledge or customs regarding Wizarding Britain,” Nicolas pointed out.

“That _is_ true,” mused Cyrna thoughtfully, “however, I’d like to say that I’m fairly confident in my knowledge after the numerous books I’ve read on Wizarding tradition and history… besides, I would run the risk of garnering significant attention if I was a transfer student—they were bound to be in the spotlight for at least a few months in my old world,” she frowned, “ and I want to avoid that situation for as long as possible.

 

* * *

 

 

“Always be aware of the amount of magic you are releasing!” hollered Nicolas at the retreating figure, “Never lose control, and especially, be careful around the other teachers in how much magic you choose to reveal!”

“And remember dear, portkey over to King’s Cross Station as soon as you’ve bought your wand!” called Perenelle hurriedly, “the train leaves at 11 o’clock sharp!”

The figure responded with a small nod of her head and a farewell wave before she disappeared from their view with a telltale “pop.” The Flamels stood watching the empty air for a while longer before they turned as one and headed back into their mansion that now seemed much more sombre compared to the bright, colourful outdoors.

“Good riddance,” muttered Nicolas dryly as he ambled down the halls with his wife to his alchemy room, “Perhaps I’ll finally get a moment of peace now that I don’t have to teach the child.”

“Well, I’ll miss the dear,” said Perenelle wistfully, “it’s going to be terribly silent again.”

A sigh followed by an assenting grunt was heard from Nicolas as he opened the door to his lab, wondering what he was going to do without the child’s occasional questions to bring him out of his boredom that he never realized he had been living in until she came. He gazed out of the small window in his potions room, revealing a beautiful sunlit day with clear blue skies. Small rays of light streamed in through the window, providing the only source of natural light for the dim candlelit room.

 _Good luck, Cyrna_ , thought Nicolas gruffly as he took one last gaze at the window before he returned to his private research.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ready?” Cyrna whispered nervously at Prince as she quickly ran her hands through his fur, trying to relieve her anxiety.

“ _Mreow._ ”

Prince released an annoyed sigh as he answered his human for the umpteenth time. Honestly, he thought, it was ridiculous how his human had dragged him from his morning sleep just to get—what did they call those sticks—a wand? Ultimately, he had no idea why his human was so nervous. _It was just a stick_.

 _‘Why couldn’t she have broken one off from the trees in the estate_?’ he thought with derision.

With a roll of his eyes, he leapt out of Cyrna’s arms and pattered over to the plain wooden door. He scratched the door impatiently and would have continued to do so if the door had not suddenly opened. With a yelp of surprise as his weight suddenly tipped forward, he tumbled into the shop, vaguely registering the quiet tinkling of bells before he unfolded himself and cautiously peered around the store. It was filled to the brim with rows upon rows of narrow wooden boxes—some of which looked new while others were covered with a layer of dust and had cobwebs forming over it. Prince gave a tiny sneeze and rubbed his irritated nose when pale, wide eyes, which seemed to glow eerily within the dark of the store, suddenly appeared in close proximity to his face—so close that he had felt the man’s exhale.

He gave a small squeak of surprise and scrambled backwards, away from the eyes.

“Ah, a most unusual customer we seem to have today,” spoke a soft, inquisitive voice as its owner gazed at him for a little longer before blessedly switching his large silvery eyes to focus the girl who had just stepped into his shop.

“ _Cyrna!_ ” Prince mentally cried with relief before dashing over to his human and clambering up into her arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Cyrna gasped in surprise as the ball of white fur hurtled straight into her arms. “Prince?” questioned Cyrna in concern, “what’s wrong?”

“It would seem that I have startled the poor cat,” murmured a voice as a man stepped out from the shadows.

Pale skin. Eerily round moon-like eyes that seemed to stare straight into your soul.

“Mr. Ollivander,” greeted Cyrna with a slight quiver in her voice that betrayed her nervousness. _Definitely understandable for Prince to be scared_ , she privately thought.

 _There is no way those eyes belong to a human_.

“I would say the same to you, child,” replied the man, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, making him slightly more approachable.

Cyrna’s eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in caution. She definitely had not said that statement out loud.

“Ah. And there goes your voice,” he muttered. Taking note of his customer’s surprise, he gave a small chuckle and said, “I have been told that my eyes are the most conspicuous features that I own; this fact coupled with a simple… skill… lead me to conclude what you were thinking.”

Cyrna frowned at his wording. It was almost as if he had used…

“You can’t use Legilimency on a student!” exclaimed Cyrna defensively.

The shopkeeper gave another quiet chuckle at that, “no, no. Of course not. But any thought that an Occlumens broadcasts is free game.”

“What—”

“Anyways,” he cleared his throat, “I take it you are here to buy a wand…” Mr. Ollivander trailed off in thought as his eyes focused and a piercing gaze took over his previously misty eyes as he began to take the necessary measurements for the wand.

“Right-handed?” he asked shortly.

“Yes,” confirmed Cyrna before she hesitantly asked the questions that had been bugging her, “I’m not an Occlumens, so what did you mean about broadcasting? And is there something special about my eyes?” She would have continued if not for noticing that the shopkeeper was no longer paying attention to her, and was instead, wandering through the narrow, dusty aisles of the wand shop, quietly muttering to himself:

“haven’t had a halfling in a while… oh, what fun,” he smiled, crooked teeth showing, “… definitely not dogwood, hmm… perhaps pine…”

Making a decision, he snatched the box from the shelf and quickly scurried back to his interesting customer.

“Pine and unicorn hair. 10 inches. Very flexible,” he recited, “go on,” he urged, eyes sparking with curiosity as Cyrna took it from his hand, “give it a wave.”

Cautiously, Cyrna gave it a small flick, and to her horror, a huge blaze of fire suddenly appeared midair.

“Nope, no, no, no, definitely not the one,” muttered Mr. Ollivander as he snatched the wand from her hand and put out the fire with a quick _Aguamenti_. “One moment, and I’ll be right back with you,” said the wandmaker absentmindedly as he scurried back to the shelves.

“Hm…” he muttered as he looked through the thousands of boxes, “what do you make of the Dark Arts?”

Shocked at this question, it took a while for Cyrna to answer, but eventually, she did with the most general answer possible. “It’s illegal,” she replied in a clipped tone. _How else am I supposed to answer this?_

“Yes, yes, of course it is,” Mr. Ollivanders muttered annoyed, “But are you against it, academically interested in it, or—ah!” he ended as he noticed a slight reaction from his customer at his last option. He picked up an old, beautifully carved ebony wand and ambled back to his customer.

“Here, give this one a try. Ebony and dragon heartstring. Rigid and unyielding.”

She had just touched the wand when the door was violently ripped off its hinges; the windows of the store shattered, and pieces of glass crashed onto the ground.

“Definitely not.” A quick _Reparo_ later and everything was looking normal once again. The wandmaker calmly wandered back to the wands leaving a slightly traumatized Prince and Cyrna in his wake.

A few wands later with varying levels of destruction accompanying it, Cyrna heaved a sigh and looked at the old grandfather clock that sat ticking away in the dusty corner of the shop.

Wait.

Was she reading the clock correctly?

Because it read 10:40.

_An hour and ten minutes have passed already!?_

_Well shit_. If she didn’t find her wand soon, she would be late for the train. Perhaps she should go to Hogwarts first and then get her wand, she thought with panic, but then how would she attend her lessons without a wand?

And so Cyrna sat nervously picking on the sleeves of her new Hogwarts school robes for a few more seconds before the anticipated voice of the wandmaker addressed her:

“Neither rigid nor flexible in your thoughts… how interesting… not daring either, nor do you place much value on the idea of fair play… ambition is lacking in you—not very competitive—and the thirst to learn for the sake of learning is also lacking…”

Cyrna mouth fell open slightly. “How did you guess all this?” she questioned with a tiny amount of awe evident in her voice.

The wandmaker flashed a quick but genuine smile at his customer, “Each wood and core represent intrinsic values within a person. The more I try various wands, the better I know you.”

Her eyes sharpened at this statement and she shrewdly asked, “then doesn’t that mean that you would know the character, and thus their future actions or choices, of every wizard and witch who you have sold a wand to?”

The only answer was a mischievous chuckle from the back of the store and more quiet rummaging sounds before a delighted, “Aha!” was heard. The wandmaker hurried back to his customer; large, silvery, luminescent eyes glowed brightly with excitement and curiosity.

“Here,” he murmured, “this one should do the trick if I’m not wrong.” Just before he handed the wand to Cyrna he gave an eerie chuckle, “filled with contradictions, aren’t you, Miss Raine?” He gave her a crooked smile as his bulbous eyes attentively watched his customer.

“Hawthorn and Thestral tail hair. This was a Thestral that I had followed for years in order to get the hair,” reminisced Mr. Ollivander. “It was aloof and independent, never near its herd—never needed it. And never, until its final moments, would it allow me to come close to it. This hair,” he said in a hushed voice, “was harvested as he died—as life transformed into death.”

Cyrna gave an involuntary shiver at the similarities between its situation and hers.

She only vaguely registered the next few words before an intricately carved handle of the wand was in her hand. She grasped it reflexively and to her surprise, found that its handle formed comfortably around her fingers, accommodating to her grip.

The wand’s magic swirled gently around hers, intertwining before settling back down.

The wand had chosen her.

 _How did I ever live without you_? She wondered in awe as she gazed at the unassuming stick that rested gently in her palms.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the wandmaker urged with anticipation shining in his eyes, “give it a wave.”

A confident smile rose onto her face. _You are mine_.

Without hesitation, she lifted her hand and made a sharp slash through the air; immediately, beautiful silver sparks showered the dim, shadowed store, painting the tiny shop with ethereal silver light. Hidden tears formed in Ollivander’s eyes as he beheld this beautiful sight. _Ah, Nyx. So you’ve finally chosen, haven’t you?_

 _‘And a powerful one at that,_ ’ he thought with amusement.

As the glow finally settled back down, Cyrna blinked a couple of times to adjust her eyes. From the darkness, she recognized the voice of Mr. Ollivander, which sounded gruffer than usual, saying, “You’d better get going soon, the train leaves in 6 minutes.”

At this, Cyrna blinked furiously to restore her vision. “How much for the wand?” she asked, ready to pay any price for it.

“You know,” began the wandmaker, suddenly going off tangent, “despite the fact that the Thestral never allowed me to approach it, we did have some sort of strange relationship,” he sighed with bittersweet nostalgia, “whenever it was wounded, hungry, or just trying to weather a large storm, it would always seek me—though it wouldn’t let me get too close to it. Maybe something had happened to it in its past, maybe it was no longer willing to allow people or other creatures close to it for a reason…” he pondered, then with a seriousness and awareness normally absent from his pale eyes he continued, “I’m just glad that he’s finally found a friend after waiting for fifty years,” he said as he cast a fond gaze at the wand which, to Cyrna, seemed to pulse in response. “No,” he murmured, “I can’t ask for anything more.” Raising his eyes, which now had a faint sheen of tears, he met Cyrna’s solemn expression and whispered, “take it, care for it, and treasure it.”

“Of course,” Cyrna promised, rearranging her features into one that she believed to be sympathy—really, she was terribly suited for emotional moments as such. “But,” she continued, “I insist to pay. I have never felt anything like I have felt today when I found my wand… if you know your customers as well as you say you do, then you must know that I hate the feeling of being indebted to someone.”

“ _Some things, like the favour you have done for me today, simply don’t have a monetary value_.”

Cyrna shifted uncomfortably. She was sure that this was one of the moments where not understanding sympathy put her at an analytical disadvantage at understanding the situation.

“Still…” she said stiffly as she stole another glance at the clock.

4 minutes left.

Her eyes widened in panic.

“Sorry sir,” she hurriedly apologized, “I really do insist to pay.”

Quickly tossing down seven galleons, the amount she remembered Harry Potter paying, she grabbed her wand and luggage and ran out the store, leaving an amused wandmaker behind. Once his customer vanished, his thoughts returned to the Thestral:

_She’s stubborn, just like you, Nyx._

He gave a peaceful sigh as a weight lifted from his heart at knowing that his friend had finally found an owner.

 _A wand filled with contradictions: as easily Dark as it could be Light. Supple grip, rigid body._ Really, he mused, he could go on forever about that wand.

Glancing at the seven gold coins lying innocuously on his palms, his thoughts turned serious as he sent a silent plea to his friend:

 _Take care of her, Nyx, don’t let her fall from her path_.

Miles away in King’s Cross station, Cyrna cast a quick glance at her wand as it gave a sudden throb.


	9. The Hogwarts Express

There was one minute left until departure and Cyrna was safely onboard the train with everything she needed for her first year at Hogwarts. She heaved a sigh of relief as she headed towards the compartments at the end of the train with Prince in one arm and her luggage in her other hand. _Way too close for comfort_ , she thought with a grimace.

_The time required to buy my wand fell far beyond my expectations_.

_A wrong calculation_.

Any later and she might have missed the train.

_But it was worth it_ , she thought with a smile as she gently touched the wand that was snugly tucked in her wand-holster, strapped securely under her arm.

Reaching the end of the train, she peered into each compartment until she found the familiar jet-black, scruffy hair of Harry Potter. She had just found the compartment when the shrill whistle proclaiming the impending departure of the Hogwarts Express sounded. Hastily sliding open the door, she entered the apartment, and dropped into the seat diagonal of Harry just as the train gave a sudden lurch forward before it settled down into a steady speed.

Cyrna breathed another sigh of relief as she pulled her wand out to levitate her luggage to a corner of the compartment. Hearing a small gasp, she turned around to face the only other occupant in the compartment who was staring at her, mouth agape.

“You’ve already learnt how to do magic,” he gasped with childish amazement and wonder.

“Hello to you too, Harry,” replied Cyrna with an amused smile that needed no faking.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if I can really do all that—magic that is,” said Harry, “it wasn’t until I held my wand that I realized that I might really be a wizard.”

The amused smile tugged into a wider smile that she tried to hide.

“Don’t worry, you’ll definitely be able to do magic,” replied Cyrna comfortingly. _I’d be very concerned for my own future if you couldn’t_. “But yes, I agree… getting the wand was definitely an experience… wasn’t it?” she asked with hushed awe as she remembered the feeling of finding a piece of herself she never knew she had lost.

“Definitely.” A blissful look entered his face as he remembered his own experience at Ollivanders, but as he thought of the wandmaker’s farewell words, his face gradually morphed into one of confusion.

“Hey Cyrna,” Harry started tentatively, “Mr. Ollivander said something strange… he said that Voldemort had the same wand core as me and that he expected great things from me… what do you think he meant?”

Cyrna’s eyes widened in surprise at finding herself in the unexpected position of being a confidant to the protagonist of the series. _Hermione was supposed to be his confidant on matters such as these_. _Hell, I’m the worst possible person for this job._

Her next thought: _Damn it._ _Hopefully I didn’t screw up the storyline too terribly by introducing myself to him first_.

“Hm,” she started carefully when she noticed Harry nervously fidgeting in the silence, “maybe it has something to do with you being the Boy-Who-Lived—the one who defeated Voldemort?” she offered tentatively.

_Stay vague. Avoid obvious lies._

“Wait. You know I’m the Boy-Who-Lived?” asked Harry wide-eyed. He had been so sure she had no idea of who he was when he had introduced himself to her in Madam Malkin’s.

_Why would he think that I wouldn’t know who he was? Every wizard and witch in Britain does_.

“Of course I knew, there aren’t many who don’t,” replied Cyrna with an amused smile.

“B-but you didn’t react to my name!”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. Harry was far more observant than she had labelled him to be.

_Another wrong calculation._

She would have to be more careful when dealing with him.

“Yes, well. I think most Purebloods would have the same reaction as me,” Cyrna replied at last.

“But you’re a half-blood, right?”

“True, but my parents grilled Pureblood traditions and proper conduct into me when I was young—said it’d be easier to get a job if I had the appropriate behaviour down,” she lied with an indifferent shrug.

“Oh,” Harry trailed off with a forlorn expression, “you seem so prepared for your future even though you’re just starting the first year… I can’t even see beyond this year—don’t want to think about it either.” Harry shuddered at the thought of having return to the Dursley’s once school ended.

Cyrna cleared her throat, feeling slightly guilty at deceiving a child, “Well, you _do_ have seven years to figure it out,” she replied as she forced an encouraging smile onto her face, “besides, if you do want to read books on Pureblood etiquette or Wizarding traditions, you can just go to the library in Hogwarts.”

“Wow, there’s a library?”

“So I heard,” she lied.

Harry was about to ask another question when the compartment door suddenly slid open and the red-headed boy that Harry had seen earlier entered. The youngest red-head took a careful glance around and noted the two figures that occupied the compartment: one was the boy who his mother had helped, and the other was a raven-haired girl with stunning blue eyes in a shade that he had never seen before.

More importantly was that there was still room in the compartment. The others were full.

Making a decision, he asked the familiar boy, “is anyone sitting there?” He pointed to the empty seat directly across from Harry, beside Cyrna.

Harry caught Cyrna’s gaze to check if she minded. A slight shrug of her shoulders told him that she didn’t care. Returning his gaze to the red-haired boy, he shook his head.

Just as the boy had sat down, the twins who had helped him settle his luggage appeared.

“Hello Harry!” they greeted enthusiastically before they introduced themselves as Fred and George Weasley. “And who is this beautiful lady,” they chirped in unison as they noticed the blue-eyed girl who was sitting quietly watching the proceedings.

“She’s my friend!” exclaimed Harry happily.

“Well, nice meeting you, friend-of-Harry-Potter,” the twins intoned with dramatic seriousness. They gave a quick playful bow before exiting the compartment, ready to find other first years to tease.

A moment of silence lingered for a while longer before the red-head, who had been staring wide-eyed at the boy across from him during his brothers’ introduction, suddenly blurted out, “are you really Harry Potter?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably and flicked his gaze to Cyrna who gave him an encouraging nod.

“Yeah,” he muttered shyly with a nod.

“Oh, so do you have the… you know…”

In response, Harry lifted his bangs revealing the scar that seemed to fascinate every wizard and witch he had met except for Cyrna.

“Wow…” Ron gaped in awe, “wicked!” he exclaimed with a huge grin.

Harry smiled. Maybe he could make another friend.

“I’m Harry—though you already know,” he began with a small excited smile, “and you are?”

“Oh right,” said the red-head as his freckled skin turned bright red from embarrassment at forgetting to introduce himself, “I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”

“And you are?” Ron stammered as he glanced at the girl beside him, feeling slightly uncomfortable at being in the presence of a girl who actually seemed feminine—having grown up with five rowdy brothers and one tomboyish sister.

Cyrna lifted a brow in amusement at Ron’s attempt to include her in the conversation. He really was as entertaining as the books wrote him to be.

“Cyrna Raine,” she gave him a friendly smile as she grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, “Nice to meet you.”

* * *

 

 

Cyrna had been reviewing the formulas for various first-year potions and had been contemplating the theory behind potion-making for ingredients of different properties while she occasionally added her thoughts to whatever Harry and Ron were conversing—trying to politely stay out of their conversation to avoid interrupting the key bonding event of Harry and Ron’s friendship.

Presently, the boys were both devouring the sweets they had bought from the trolley. She picked up her own pumpkin pasty that she had bought despite Harry’s insistence to share his with her and took a bite.

_Oh,_ she thought with bliss.

It was heavenly.

The savoury sweet crust contrasted beautifully with the pumpkin filling that was spiced perfectly, leading to a mouth-watering sensation.

‘Where had this creation been when she was in her old world?’ she thought with regret at having lived so long without eating this. She had been slowly savouring her pastry in utter peace as she blocked out the boys’ conversation and tuned out the world when the compartment door banged open and a bossy voice inquired, “Has anyone seen Neville’s toad?”

Cyrna’s eyes flew open at hearing the third member of what many people would deem “The Golden Trio.”

“We’ve just told him that his toad wasn’t here,” spoke Ron with a mouthful of pastries and a wand in his hand.

“Oh, were you about to magic?” she questioned when she saw the wand. She took a seat beside Harry, crossed her legs primly, and said sniffily, “Well, let’s see it then.”

Cyrna closed her eyes again and attempted to block out the secondhand embarrassment she would get from Ron’s ignorance when he performed his ‘spell.’

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, I’m Hermione Granger,” she stated after what must have been a few minutes of bullet-fast monologue where she had not paused for a single breath, “and you are?”

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered in return.

“Harry Potter.”

Cyrna soon found sharp brown eyes focused on her when she had not answered immediately.

“You?” asked Hermione with slight impatience.

“Cyrna Raine,” she responded in a clipped tone, slightly annoyed at her attitude.

“Hmph, well, pleasure meeting all of you,” said Hermione before she turned to Harry, “are you really _the_ Harry Potter? When I went to Diagon Alley, I was browsing the bookstore and got a couple of books on top of my textbooks for extra reading—”

At this Ron shuddered.

Without pausing for breath, Hermione continued, “You know I’ve read about you in at least three books,” she recited, “ _Modern Magical History_ , _The Rise and the Fall of the Dark Arts,_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century._ ”

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling somewhat confused at how he should respond.

“Hm, well anyways, which house do you guys want to be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope that I’ll get placed in Gryffindor. It’s definitely the best, after all, Albus Dumbledore himself was there—thought I guess I could settle for Ravenclaw…” without waiting for an actual response she got up from the seat with a huff. “Well, I’d better go and look for Neville’s toad,” she said as she exited their compartment only to stick her head back in to add:

“Oh. And you should change,” she said in a bossy voice, “we’ll be there soon.” With that, the door once again slid shut.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well I sure hope I won’t end up in the same house as her. She’s mental!” Ron exclaimed, annoyance and displeasure wrinkling his nose.

Harry shrugged. She didn’t seem too bad—not like his cousin who was a bully. Just a bit bossy. “Which house do you want to go to?” he curiously asked Cyrna and Ron.

“Definitely Gryffindor,” replied Ron immediately without second thought. “That’s the house that all the Weasleys have gone too—don’t even want to think about what might happen if I end up in a different house. Well, actually, I guess my ma’ would be fine with any house as long as it’s not Slytherin,” he shivered with disgust.

“Because that’s the house that Vol—You-Know-Who was in?”

“Yeah. Only dark wizards get sorted there.”

“Oh—” began Harry before Cyrna cut in.

“Slytherins aren’t all bad,” she said quietly in response to the redhead’s hasty generalization.

Ron snorted, “They’re all slimy snakes that only look out for their own skin.”

An uncomfortable feeling hit her when she realized how close those words were to her current mentality. It was true that though she would help others if she owed them a favour, she would never do anything that would put herself at risk.

Her life came first for her.

_Does the make me bad?_ she wondered. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with this mentality. That was how you survived in any world.

A comforting pulse from her wand quieted her chaotic thoughts.

No, there was nothing wrong with ensuring your safety first, she decided. Perhaps it was the cowardly thing to do, but that didn’t make the act or mentality evil.

Cyrna shrugged in response, “self-preservation _is_ a Slytherin trait, but I don’t think there is anything wrong with looking out for yourself—especially when they’re living in an era where other houses view them the way you do, who else, if not themselves, is going to watch out for them?”

Ron spluttered, “you don’t understand how evil the Malfoys are. Their youngest is probably even worse than his Death Eater father!”

Harry listened to the debate attentively between his two friends in silence as he contemplated the points from each side. He watched as Cyrna quirked an eyebrow when the name _Malfoy_ was mentioned.

“Are you basing your thoughts on Slytherin solely from your family’s terrible relationship with the Malfoys?” questioned Cyrna with an arc of her brow.

“That and the Slytherins were all Death Eaters in the last war!”

“I would bet a fortune that not every single Slytherin took the mark—though you are correct—most _did_.”

“See,” Ron replied smugly.

“But you don’t know the circumstances behind the mark. Purebloods stand as a unit. You’ve told us that you enjoyed chess, didn’t you? What do you think would happen to them if they chose not to accept the mark?”

“They would’ve died,” muttered Ron uneasily before he continued boldy, “but I would rather die than take the mark. _They’re cowards_.”

“I guess you could say that, or you could say that they were looking out for their family. Either way, being a coward does not make you evil,” said Cyrna heatedly, getting personally invested in the argument, “There might also be some that regret taking the mark,” she mused in a calmer tone as she thought of Snape.

“I hate the Malfoys,” said Ron bitterly.

Cyrna sighed, “then please have your hatred for that particular family contained.”

Silence settled into the compartment as Ron pondered over the new perspective on Slytherin while Cyrna went back to reviewing her potions and Harry awkwardly starred out the window at the passing scenery as the train chugged along, approaching the huge castle that sat in a valley surrounded by mountains.

Wait.

“Hey!” said Harry excitedly, “that’s Hogwarts isn’t it!”

Both his friends glanced up and looked at the small speck that was growing in size.

“Blimey, mate. I believe it is!” exclaimed Ron with a huge grin on his face, “and that part of the castle,” here he pointed at a large flat grassy plain with hooped-rods sticking out of the ground, “is the Quidditch pitch,” he finished, eyes bright with enthusiasm.

Cyrna stayed silent and simply devoured the sight of what had just years ago been a childhood fairy tale.

Their moment of content observation ended when the door to their compartment slid open and three boys—one being the pale, pointed-faced boy that Harry had met at Madam Malkin’s, the others being thick, round-faced and mean-looking boys who stood on either side of the blond-haired boy as if they were bodyguards—entered.

“So you’re Harry Potter?” asked the blond-haired boy, ignoring the other members in the compartment.

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly as he glanced at the large boys standing on either side of the boy he had met at Madam Malkin’s.

“They’re Crabbe and Goyle,” the boy said carelessly, without bothering to look at them. “I’m _Malfoy_ ,” he stressed meaningfully, “Draco Malfoy.”

Ron gave a snort at Draco’s arrogance and sent a significant “I told you so” look to Cyrna who was quietly sitting beside him reviewing her Charms textbook.

“Think my name’s funny, _don’t you?_ ” the blond hissed as he took in the red-haired boy with a look of contempt. “Red hair, freckles, and that disgustingly stupid look you’re sporting right now,” he sneered, “ _why_ ,” he began with malicious innocence, “you must be a _Weasley_.”

“Why you,” growled Ron as he attempted to stand only to be pulled back down by Cyrna, intent to let the proper storyline play its part.

Draco gave a sneer when he saw the red-haired Weasley restrained by a raven-haired girl who had not once glanced up from her book since he had arrived.

_Probably scared of me_ , he smirked arrogantly.

He turned back to Harry.

“You’ll soon find that some families are _better_ than the others, Potter,” he sneered, “Wouldn’t want to go about making friends with the wrong sort, would you?” he continued, “you could do _so much better_ than a Weasley and a half-blood girl who is too scared to even glance up from her book.” His lips curled into a confident smirk as he held out his hand to Harry, “ _I can help you there_.”

Harry narrowed his eyes in anger, “I think I can tell the wrong sort out by myself,” he replied, ignoring the outstretched arm.

_And here, their rivalry starts_ , thought Cyrna as she mentally ticked off the checkpoint.

A pale flush spread over Malfoy’s face in his anger and he hissed threateningly, “Well I’d be careful now, Potter. Wouldn’t want you to end up with the same,” he paused before he continued with an arrogant smile, “fate with your parents… would you?”

Harry stood up in anger when he recognized the perceived slur against his parents.

“That’s exactly the fate you’ll end up sharing,” said Malfoy tauntingly as he stepped back to allow the two lumps of meat to shield him, “if you continue to hang out with second-rate people like the Weasleys and Hagrid.”

Cyrna released her grip, and Ron sprung to his feet. Face as red as his hair.

“You two want to fight?” he sneered arrogantly as he cast another veiled, curious glance at the raven-haired girl who continued to calmly flick through a textbook, not acknowledging his presence.

“Unless you leave our compartment. Right. Now,” bit out Harry bravely though he mentally trembled at the thought of having to face those two muscled masses.

Draco lips twisted into an unpleasant expression as his annoyance had reached its peak—not because of Harry’s answer, _oh no_ , but because of this _half-blood_ who had not even given him a glance or a sound of acknowledgement since he had entered the compartment. ‘ _Who does she think she is?_ ’ he thought angrily.

Making an abrupt decision, he yelled, “Goyle, grab that girl’s textbook,” he smirked, “and _rip it_.”

Cyrna had just registered what was said before her charms textbook was out of her hands and the sickening sound of its paper spine ripping could be heard. She stared in stunned confusion at the ruined pages that slowly drifted to the ground.

Having never been bullied before, it didn’t register that she was being bullied until later—much later when her thoughts finally caught up to her observations as she watched Ron and Harry both swing at Goyle with fury in her behalf.

She continued to observe the situation with growing irritation, slowly morphing into anger—now that Draco had acted against her personally—as she watched Goyle easily catch Harry’s and Ron’s fist.

Suddenly, a rat appeared and sunk its teeth deep into Goyle’s hand. He yelped in pain and surprise before he flung the rat against the windows. The rat fell down limp, seemingly unconscious.

“Scabbers!” shouted Ron before he turned back for another lunge.

Crabbe and Goyle sneered as they both prepared to retaliate.

“It’s all your fault,” said Draco tauntingly towards Cyrna, “you should know your place, and greet your _betters_ properly,” he sneered, “ _half-blood._ ”

Throughout the entire encounter, Cyrna had been keeping her cool by mentally reminding herself that Draco, despite being an asshole, was still a child who had been misguided by his father and that she was an adult.

But right now, she felt her desire to refrain from hexing him, slowly disintegrate.

She allowed her meticulous control over her magic to slip marginally, and instantly, her magic flared. The end of the train shuddered before it stabilized and continued to move safely towards Hogwarts. Though Ron and Draco were perhaps not the most observant people when it came to magic, they had, for a brief second, felt a slight change in their tiny compartment. The air had dropped several degrees lower, and the feeling of danger had been palpable before it returned to normal.

Harry blatantly stared at Cyrna with wide eyes—as if he saw something that the others could not see.

_Well it isn’t too hard to figure out who caused the change,_ Draco thought as he put two and two together and watched with increasing apprehension as the raven-haired girl lifted her eyes from the destroyed pages of her book lying scattered all over the ground and gazed at him with irritation and anger that gave her crystal blue eyes an unearthly glow. They stared straight into his eyes, scorching them with the intensity of cold fire, and fear began to settle into his mind.

Like any Slytherin worth his salt, he had a fairly decent sense of self-preservation, and right now, it was telling him to run.

But Malfoys _never_ ran from a confrontation with a half-blood, so arrogantly, relying on nothing but his pride, he remained standing tensely on his spot. He trembled slightly before he opened his mouth, and with a quaver in his voice, he said, “Crabbe, Goy—”

“Just leave, Malfoy,” said Cyrna, cutting in with a lethally quiet voice, “we’re not allowed to fight on the train. I’m not particularly fond of the idea of being in trouble before school starts. Are you?”

Draco’s eyes widened when he realized the opportunity the half-blood had subtlety and purposefully—if her expression meant anything—thrown to him to defuse the situation. Well. He would take the opportunity then, seeing that it wouldn’t damage the Malfoy pride.

He mentally denied that he was grateful for the help.

With an arrogant huff, he replied, “The Malfoy family must be an example for other purebloods to follow. I have no time to get in trouble, nor do I have any time to deal with you second-rate people,” said Draco haughtily as he finished, “I would recommend you all to watch your backs.”

With that, he gave Ron and Harry a lingering glare to enforce his statement before he spun around and marched out the compartment followed by Crabbe and Goyle.

_Well that was different from the book_ , thought Cyrna with a sigh, _hopefully, Hermione will be appearing any second now… ah_.

The quick patter of footsteps announced the arrival of the bushy haired girl.

“I hope you weren’t fighting,” she began bossily, “ _that’s against the rules_.”

Ron replied with a scowl.

“Well,” she sniffed, “I’ll tell you what I’ve been telling the other first-years: we’re nearly at Hogwarts and you should definitely change into your school robes.” She paused before continuing, “Oh, and Ron?”

Ron gave her an irritated look.

“You’ve got dirt on your nose. Might want to clean _that_ before we enter school.”

Having said her piece, with a quick flip of her head, she turned and headed out to the next compartment to find other first-years to pass down her knowledge.

Ron glared at her as she left, and Harry gave an indifferent shrug when Ron turned his aghast expression on him. The boys quickly pulled their robes over their head just before the train stuttered to a stop.

 

* * *

 

 

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid yelled as the first-years began settling into their boats.

Harry and Ron quickly pilled into a boat. “Come on, Cyrna, let’s go!” said Harry excitedly when he saw that his friend had not followed him on.

Cyrna was about to step in when, from her peripheral vision, she saw Daphne standing on the side with two other students that she didn’t recognize, and she saw Hermione and Neville slowly approach the boat.

“Are you sitting with them?” Hermione asked Cyrna as Neville followed awkwardly behind her.

Four people to a boat.

If she remembered correctly, Hermione and Neville had been the ones sitting with Harry and Ron.

“She’s sitting with us,” proclaimed Harry and Ron in unison.

“Oh, I don’t have to sit here if there is no space,” piped up Neville in a quivering voice.

Cyrna sighed. She would just find another boat—hopefully the one with Daphne. It was true that changing the seating might not affect the overall story, but if possible, she’d rather follow the storyline as close as possible.

“No it’s fine, seeing that you guys came in a pair,” she said reasonably to Hermione and Neville, “you take the seats. I’ll find another boat and meet the rest you at the castle.”

“If you were going to sit with them, you really don’t need to step aside to allow us the spots—you _were_ here first,” said Hermione awkwardly.

“Yeah you were here first!” chimed Ron, not wanting to be seated with the bossy girl.

Cyrna flashed a quick smile at Hermione and Neville before she restated her decision, “I really don’t mind. You can have the seats.”

Neville gave her a grateful smile as he clambered on while Hermione looked at her curiously before she seated herself in the boat.

Harry watched Cyrna with confusion and a bit of hurt. _Does she not want to sit with me?_ he wondered.

As if she knew his thoughts, she gave him a huge smile and a wink before saying playfully, “there’ll be tons of other chances for us to meet up in Hogwarts, Harry!”

Harry’s expression brightened. “I’ll see you on the other side then?”

“I promise.”


	10. The Sorting

“Daphne,” Cyrna greeted with a tentative smile as she approached the pale girl who was standing close to a tall, thin, brown-haired boy who kept an aloof expression and a black-haired girl with a stocky build and a jutting jaw.

The pale girl delicately arched an eyebrow up in response. “Cyrna. I thought you would be sitting with the Potter boy?” intoned Daphne coldly, her features not betraying a single emotion.

Studying Daphne’s face for a while longer before deciding that no information could be gleaned, Cyrna gave a nonchalant shrug and cautiously answered, “there are many benefits to befriending the boy-who-lived—of course,” a teasing lilt entered her tone, “when I saw my friend that I had met in Diagon Alley, I just _had_ to come and offer you a greeting.”

Amusement lit Daphne’s sky-blue eyes for a brief moment before her emotionless expression returned. Her eyes darted to the forms of her two other companions who were watching the proceedings with a disdainful look before she met Cyrna’s probing gaze with a carefully blank expression.

 _‘She’s acting_ ’ thought Cyrna with a mental smirk as she answered Daphne’s gaze with a minuscule tilt of her head.

Approval shone in Daphne’s eyes, and with a tilt of her chin, she spoke in a lofty voice, introducing her companions, “Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode of _the Sacred Twenty-Eight_.” She gestured to Cyrna. “Cyrna.” She introduced to her companions.

Both continued to stare disdainfully at Cyrna.

“And she will be sitting with us,” finished Daphne, stretching out her hand as an invitation.

Cyrna took it without hesitation and politely spoke her thanks.

The boy shot a confused look at Daphne before rolling his eyes and giving a resigned sigh. He gave a small shrug at the other girl who was staring at Daphne with an expression of disgust and headed towards the boat.

“Theodore! What are you doing!” the other girl cried, “She’s not even a pureblood and isn’t she the girl that Draco was ranting to us about on the train ride? He hates her!”

Cyrna’s eyes narrowed though she remained still. She looked towards Daphne and noted the minuscule shake of head.

 _Stay out of it._ Her eyes seemed to convey. _I’ll handle this._

Cyrna kept her silence and watched as Theodore turned around slowly. Their eyes met, Cyrna’s not betraying any emotion; his coldly assessing. He looked her over critically for a few more seconds before he replied with a lazy drawl, “I don’t see what is so special about her—”

Millicent’s eyes lit up while Daphne’s expression remained impassive.

“—but Daphne rarely makes a move without merit,” Theodore continued, “besides, a short boat ride with a half-blood has never killed anyone.”

“But what if Draco sees us with her! I don’t want to be on his bad side!” Millicent whined.

Theodore snorted. He switched his gaze to Daphne. “I’ll see you on the boat after you settle this matter,” he said before walking off in a leisurely pace.

Cyrna watched as the boy walked off leaving Millicent at the mercy of Daphne’s fierce gaze.

“So what are you going to do? Follow every whim Draco has? Like what he likes and hate what he hates?” Daphne sneered with disgust, “grow a brain,” she said scornfully. “Slytherins look out for each other, but first, we look out for our own skin.” She cast a quick glance at Cyrna before she turned back to face Millicent, “and if you had seen what I had seen in Flourish and Blotts, you would realize that she is worth risking Malfoy’s ire.”

“But the Malfoys, besides the Blacks, is the most influential family—my parents said to stay on Malfoy’s good side!”

Daphne eyed Millicent for a while longer until she began to shift uncomfortably under the stare. She gave a sniff of disdain. “Well, lucky for our little group, _my_ parents brought me up with _some_ form of pride towards my _own_ family. The Greengrass family will make decisions that prioritize our own benefit,” she concluded firmly.

“But—”

“If you are content with slaving away for Malfoy, then suit yourself,” Daphne shrugged as she motioned with a tilt of her head for Cyrna to walk with her to the boat, “ _but_ _I have my own pride_ , and my ambitions as the heiress of the Greengrass family is far greater than being someone’s lapdog.”

 

* * *

 

 

The boat ride was spent in tense silence. Theodore was staring straight ahead with a fixed gaze at the destination; Daphne calmly sat cross-legged, inspecting her nails with her emotionless expression while Millicent threw nervous glances towards the boat Malfoy was on, hoping that he wouldn’t notice their boat. Cyrna sat quietly beside Daphne with Prince sleeping on her lap, contemplating about the prejudice that she had just experienced and about the upcoming event—the sorting.

Tensely, she thought about the possible houses that she could be in and desperately hoped for Ravenclaw. Her plans hinged on her making it into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff—and there was no way she would qualify for the latter house.

‘ _Well,_ ’ she thought, ‘ _the Sorting Hat_ **did** _allow Harry to choose his house..._ ’

‘ _There’s no reason to worry_ ,’ she decided. Cyrna settled back on her seat, ready to enjoy the boat ride.

The little boat glided across the water, barely disturbing the water’s surface. From the distance, Hogwarts already seemed extremely tall, but as they glided closer, the great castle which sat on the edge of a high cliff, seemed to reach further and further into the expanse of the starry night sky, looming over their tiny boats. She could not take her eyes away from the sight. Cyrna watched with stunned awe as she gazed upon the magnificence of its architecture—doubly so as the windows on its many turrets were currently lit up with a warm, inviting glow, and soft quiet music could be heard originating from the castle.

Hogwarts shone like a beacon of light amidst the dark of the night sky, and it was utterly beautiful.

This sight faded as the fleet of boats approached a curtain of ivy concealing a dark, underground passageway to the huge, oak front door.

“Everyone here?” Hagrid bellowed with a merry grin on his face as he surveyed the students who crowded around him, eager to get a glimpse of the interior of the castle. With a wink to Harry and Cyrna, he knocked loudly on the door, each one sending vibrations to the ground. At the third knock, the door abruptly swung open and the students standing nearest to the castle door were able to make out the figure of a stern-looking witch in emerald green robes who was studying each of the students carefully, making sure they had adhered to the dress code.

“Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid, “I’ve brought the firs’ years.”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I’ll take them from here,” the witch replied as she pulled the door open wider and started across the flagged stone floor which was only visible under the fire-light of the bright torches that lined the stone walls of the castle. As they neared the Great Hall, the sound of excited chatter became louder and louder; the music that they had heard on the lake flooded their ears with its warm and inviting melody.

 

* * *

 

 

“How exactly do they sort us,” asked Harry, who had been listening attentively to Professor McGonagall’s speech on how to win the house cup, in a quiet whisper.

Cyrna, who was behind Harry, gave a small shrug when he glanced questioningly at her.

Seeing that neither of his friends had any idea of what might happen, Ron spoke up, “My brothers said that it would be some sort of test that would hurt a lot.” He shrugged when he saw Harry’s horrified expression, “well that’s what the _twins_ said. So it’s probably a lie.”

Cyrna watched as most of the students panic silently about the sorting as they waited for Professor McGonagall to return while many Purebloods looked on with sadistic glee—that is, until the horde of ghosts streamed in through the walls. A yelp from Prince and shrieks of surprise from all the students was heard as the ghosts circled around the group, introducing themselves.

This continued for a few more minutes before the clear, sharp voice of Professor McGonogall proclaimed, “The Great Hall is ready.” She motioned for the ghosts to leave. “Now, form a line and follow me,” she said to the first years.

Cyrna shot a small encouraging smile towards Harry before she moved back in line to stand with Daphne.

Walking into the Great Hall was just as amazing as the experience of crossing the Black Lake to Hogwarts on the boat. The ceiling of the Hall showed the beautiful starry night sky and thousands of small floating candles cast a bright, warm glow on the Hall. The four tables near the entrance of the Great Hall were lined with students whose faces were now turned towards the group of first years who were being led into the Hall. The tables were filled with golden décor and golden plates and cutlery which under the candlelight, shimmered, adding to the magical feeling of the Hall.

“Which house do you think you’ll be sorted into?” whispered Daphne quietly.

“Probably Ravenclaw,” muttered Cyrna, “to me, intelligence is more important than anything.”

Daphne gave Cyrna a look that she couldn’t quite interpret before saying, “Well, if that’s the house you want to go to, I wish you good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Cyrna, “and you want to be in Slytherin?”

“Not necessarily,” answered Daphne pensively, “but I can’t imagine myself being placed anywhere else.”

Cyrna silently agreed.

Reaching the front of the hall to where the teachers sat, Professor McGonagall indicated for them to stop, and she silently placed a four-legged stool in front of them. On top, she placed a worn, tattered, pointed hat.

 _The Sorting Hat_. Cyrna watched with rapt amazement as like in the movies, the Sorting Hat sat motionless for a while before it twitched and came to life and began to sing its song. Cyrna started to pay more attention when the song began to sing of Ravenclaw and Slytherin:

“ _Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_if you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

That sounded like her, Cyrna thought.

 

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folks use any means_

_To achieve their ends._ ”

 

That also sounded like her, she thought with a frown. Well, she hastily amended, maybe not _any_ means to achieve her end—but then again, even if it did come down to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, she would just choose Ravenclaw.

 

Strangely, the uneasiness in the back of her mind, which had been nagging her ever since hearing Harry ask about the houses on the Express, persisted. She watched with an indescribable feeling of impending doom as Professor McGonagall stepped forward and began reading the list of names in alphabetical order:

“Abbot, Hannah!” she called.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

“Bones, Susan…”

And the sorting continued on uninterestingly until a sharp voice calling, “Granger, Hermione!” was heard.

Cyrna felt a rush of relief when the hat yelled out after a few minutes of silence, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Moments later, she felt a hand lightly touch her arm and heard a whisper of “good luck to you” as she spun around to see Daphne walking towards the hat. The hat had just been placed on her head for a few seconds before it pronounced, “SLYTHERIN!”

Cyrna clapped and flashed a small at Daphne’s direction as she watched her join the Slytherin table who was cheering at getting a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

“Cyrna,” she heard a quiet hiss, “she’s in Slytherin!”

She angled her body sideways and glanced forwards, making out the surprised face of Harry Potter.

“And?” Cyrna prompted.

Harry shifted uneasily, “well, I know she is nice—”

At this Cyrna mentally reminded herself to give Harry a talk that while Slytherins could be nice, it was not often that it came from a genuine intention to simply be nice. He would have to be careful when dealing with that house.

“—but Ron said that that was where the people who killed my parents were sorted.”

Cyrna’s eyes softened, “And Ron is right. That is where most of them were sorted, but not all of them. Do not be so quick to judge an entire house based on the actions of one group of people.”

“I guess so,” he muttered with his face scrunched up in a thoughtful expression as he turned back to face the front.

 _‘He might still be too young to understand that the world is largely painted in greys,_ ’ she mused.

Once Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin, she tuned out the sorting as she glanced around the hall, taking in the experience of simply _being_ in this moment. She had been casually scanning the front table where the teachers sat when her eyes locked onto the ebony orbs of a thin, sallow-skinned man who had a huge hooked nose. Curtains of pitch-black greasy hair hung limply in clumps to his shoulder.

Quickly, the look of intrigue the Professor had directed at the girl he had seen in the library morphed into a blank, emotionless gaze. His lips curled into a sneer when he caught her looking, revealing his yellow, uneven teeth.

Cyrna shivered as the feeling of disgust reflexively washed over her and she promptly averted her gaze—sure the books had said that he was unattractive and somewhat lacking in personal hygiene but reading it and seeing it in person were two very different things. This was something she was gradually coming to realize as she continued to exist in the Harry Potter universe.

Being born in the late 20th century, she had never had the misfortune of meeting anyone with such poor hygiene. This was tripled by the fact that she was often working in clean, sterile environments. The feeling of disgust that had coursed through her moments ago… despite the knowledge that he was one of her favourite characters, there was no way she could have avoided that feeling.

She tuned back to the sorting just in time to hear Professor McGonagall read:

“Potter, Harry.”

Immediately fierce whispers spread through the Great Hall as the students chattered with their friends, trying to guess which house would get the boy-who-lived.

Harry’s cheek turned red as he kept his gaze down and quickly walked to the hat. He caught a glimpse of Cyrna’s nervous expression before his world turned dark and an old crackling voice sounded in his head, “Hm, difficult. _Very_ difficult. Plenty of courage… not a bad mind either…”

 

* * *

 

 

Cyrna was almost as apprehensive for Harry’s sorting as she was for her own. Having told Harry that Slytherins were not all evil, she desperately hoped that her spiel would not affect his sorting. If it did, she was quite ready to throw herself off a cliff for her sheer idiocy. Why she had argued for the Slytherins… she guessed that it was because she somewhat understood their perspective, having finished the Harry Potter series, and though she did not want to admit it, she also knew that she had argued for Slytherin because, quite frankly, there was a decent chance that she would be sorted into the house.

If she _was_ sorted _there_ , and she had not brought up her argument to Harry and Ron for the house… she shuddered to think what would become of whatever relationship she was building with Harry if she had ended up in there—though of course, she mentally chanted, _she wouldn’t_.

It was not a smart gamble she had taken. If things went wrong, then her action would threaten the future that she knew of the Harry Potter universe. Things would have been infinitely better if she had never said anything about Slytherin. “Friendship” with Harry Potter be damned.

_Wasn’t her life and the security of her future more important to her than keeping a good relationship with Harry?_

Realizing that she had made an incredibly selfish decision in the spur of the moment, she could only watch tensely, nibbling on her bottom lip and nervously picking at the insides of her robes as she waited... and waited… and waited for a couple more minutes. She had just been about to panic when the hat blessedly called out:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“YES!” Cyrna cried out in relief; her cheer was thankfully drowned out by the pounding and clapping from the Gryffindor tables as they enthusiastically welcomed the famed boy-who-lived into their house.

With an apologetic glance, Harry said in a fleeting whisper as he walked by Cyrna towards the Gryffindor table, “Sorry.” A sad expression took over, “I just don’t think I would be able to stomach being in the same house as the one who killed mum and dad.”

She was about to answer when she heard the sharp voice call her name:

“Raine, Cyrna.”

 

* * *

 

 

Black eyes by the staff table narrowed in disgust as Snape watched Potter strut towards the Gryffindor table, ready to bask in the cheers and adoration the house was already shouting towards the boy-who-lived.

Black, messy hair. The annoying facial features of James Potter completed with the round glasses that perched on the boy’s face.

 _He’s an exact replica of his father_ , he thought with maliciousness as he viciously gripped his wand.

His teeth gnashed in silent hatred as he glared at the back of the boy’s head with irrational rage; bitterness drowned out the rational part of his mind that normally ruled his actions and ignoring the muffled voice that frantically reminded him that he was also Lily’s, his thoughts morphed into one:

 _He_ **is** _his father_.

Snape had been seething for a few seconds when a movement in his peripheral vision caught his eyes.

The girl who he had seen in the bookstore with Miss Greengrass was now moving towards the hat. He gave Quirrell a sharp jab when he saw him stare strangely at the Potter boy. “What’s the name of the girl who is being sorted right now?” he asked with a scowl, not willing to verbally explain that he had missed her name while he had been embroiled in his thoughts of revenge.

“Cy-Cyrna-a R-raine,” Quirrell stuttered out, eyes wide in fear.

His eyes narrowed with interest as he ignored the stuttering and trembling man sitting beside him and focused his full attention on the girl. _Now, if she has less than half the idiocy of a normal dunderhead, she may finally be a student worth my time_ , he thought as he remembered the potency of her untrained magic which he had seen for a brief moment at the bookshop.

 

*****

 

Cyrna tensely waited for the voice to appear once the Hat was on but was met with silence.

‘ _This isn’t supposed to happen!_ ’ she thought anxiously, fidgeting on the stool. After sitting for a few more minutes which seemed like hours, she moved, prepared to lift the hat off and inquire as to whether it was broken when a sudden crackling voice stopped her.

“I’m not broken, strange child,” said the Hat, “but you might be. I haven’t met a mind as unnatural as yours since I was made by Godric.”

Cyrna sat in tense silence for a few seconds longer before she realized the hat had gone silent again, “wait, so can you sort me?”

“I can, but there are some blacked out spots in your memory that I can’t seem to see to matter what I do… and what I _do_ see is something unbelievable…”

“What do you see?”

“Only your memories starting from the summer of 1990… but you are clearly much older than that… it’s almost as if your mind exists as a separate entity from your body…”

“Just sort me somewhere based on the memories you see—or better yet, just put me in Ravenclaw,” said Cyrna with a hint of exasperation. It had been minutes since the Hat had last spoken and she was becoming increasingly nervous as she began to hear whispers circulating the Great Hall.

The Hat seemed to come to life at this statement.

“Ah, but why Ravenclaw?” asked the Hat, “I agree that you would never fit in with the Gryffindors and the Hufflepuffs, but what about Slytherin? You know, you are quite the Slytherin too.”

Cyrna hesitated before answering with the standard response she had given to anyone who had asked, “because there is nothing more important than knowledge. If you have knowledge, you virtually have the ability to attain anything you want. You could make money easily if you were highly intelligent, you would flourish in anything you wanted to do.”

“You’re holding back the key answer,” scolded the Hat as it sensed her omission, “I’m bound by an oath to never speak of one’s sorting to another, so you’re only making your wait longer in lying by omission.”

Cyrna scowled as she thought of her actual answer. That would _definitely_ tip the hat to sort her into Slytherin.

She chose to remain silent.

Minutes ticked by, and the whisperings turned into normal-volume conversations between students. Some complaining that they were hungry, others furiously debating as to which house she would fall and the reasons for the hatstall. It was when she felt hands grip the hat as they attempted, but failed, to yank it off her head, that she finally decided to answer, seeing that the Hat was willing to wait for as long as it was required for her honesty.

“Because knowledge is simply the most efficient tool to survive in my world,” she bit out through gritted teeth as she thought back to her past life, “While not all of the most successful people may be intellectual geniuses, the majority of them _are_ highly intelligent—but that doesn’t make me Slytherin!” she snapped.

The Hat quieted down before saying, “You know, even if you had not given me your true answer, your previous answer was still rather Slytherin.”

“Why?” questioned Cyrna in panic.

“Ravenclaws learn for the sake of learning _—for the simple joy they find in expanding their knowledge_. I’ve seen your memories, and I can safely say that I have never seen a time when you would study a subject for the sake of interest.”

“No! I—” Cyrna protested.

“Like your attitude towards people, you discard facts and pieces of information that you would deem—and rightfully so—as useless in your daily life while a Ravenclaw would hoard such knowledge.”

“That’s irrational,” Cyrna scorned, “Ravenclaw is the most logical house in Hogwarts.”

“Yes, but sometimes,” mused the Hat, “even the most logical person may be prone to irrational judgements when faced with certain things. What one may view as irrational may be rational to another.”

“But—”

“And would you not say that every, if not most, actions that you have consciously chosen to perform were to further your chances at survival—at self-preservation?”

“Yes,” said Cyrna reluctantly, “but anyone, besides the altruistic Gryffindors, would have some level of self-preservation.”

“I think,” chuckled the had sadly, “that even among the Slytherins, you would find many willing to lay down their life for someone or for a purpose that they cared for. That is the ‘sympathy’ you are seeking to understand, no?”

Cyrna bristled with indignation when the hat confronted her directly with her flaw. _What was the difference between a human and an intelligent machine if the human could not sympathize?_ This was a question she had frequently asked herself since her aunt’s death.

 _Well, nothing. Perhaps one may live longer than the other, but ultimately, the thing that defines being alive versus an inanimate object is gone_.

When she had realized this, she had worked as hard as she could to learn what she lacked, but the simple knowledge that everyone seemed to grasp reflexively as a child, continuously slipped from her grasp. Just when she thought she almost understood, something would happen, leaving her more confused than before.

How could she be the best if she couldn’t even pass her own qualifications in being human?

The Hat listened to her thoughts without judgement.

“But what am I, if not defined by my intelligence?” Cyrna wondered bitterly to the Hat. That was all people had praised and complimented her for in her past world. “Take it away and you are left with nothing—nothing special at least. Knowledge and intelligence are important to me,” she restated. “Ravenclaw would help me develop my strengths—develop _me_.”

There was a pause before the Hat responded sadly, “It’s tragic to see someone so young think the way you do.”

Cyrna’s breath caught in her throat. _Was she being pitied?_

“Truly, you could be so much more than your intelligence and knowledge if you would just give yourself a chance… and it is for this reason that I will sort you in—”

“Wait—” cried Cyrna when she realized what the hat was going to say. However it was all for naught for once the Hat made its decision, it would stay with it. She watched with a sick and helpless feeling as her finely knit plans for surviving the Harry Potter universe shattered before her eyes when the Hat seemingly proclaimed the one word which would condemn her:

“SLYTHERIN!”


	11. Her Move

Cyrna listened numbly as the Hat announced her house. The desperation which had risen soon grew into a muted anger that seemed to rage uncontrollably in the back of her mind though there _was_ a part of her that watched the scene play out in detached amusement.

 _‘Funny how Life seems so intent on destroying every plan that I make,’_ she thought idly as she watched hands that felt as if they were not her own, raise from her lap into the air, preparing to take off the Hat. ‘ _Everything had been going the way I wanted in my past life before it was ripped away. I had what would have made me successful in life. A good prospect. Money. Family. “Friends”… Here… My plan to remain in the sidelines… a plan that I had meticulously prepared for over a year … it’s suddenly gone.’_

Cyrna felt as a slight twang of hysteria welled up in her, forcing a bitter laugh to escape her lips. ‘ _There’s no way I won’t be impacted by the story if I’m in Slytherin_.’

The foreign hands now reached the old tattered brim of the Hat, and as she lifted the Hat from her head, it came once more to life. It’s old crackling voice echoing through her unfocused mind seemed somewhat muffled as she listened on disconnectedly, “I would _never_ sort you into Slytherin if I thought you couldn’t handle it,” said the Hat, “ _Observe_. Do what you do best, Cyrna, and analyze the situation. A dead end to one plan doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve lost the game.”

_“A dead end to one plan doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve lost the game.”_

Cyrna’s eyes widened slightly at the Hat’s last statement as it slowly filtered across her muddled thoughts.

‘ _Right. The game hasn’t ended… it has just begun.’_

Her hands moved mechanically to set down the Hat.

She slid off the stool, the polite applause from the Slytherin table and the teachers registering somewhere in the back of her mind. The sounds and the ambience of the Great Hall seemed to fade into the background as her focus zeroed in on the Gryffindor table.

 _Observe_. _Perhaps not all is lost._

Her eyes rapidly scanned the students seated on the end of the long wooden table under the scarlet and gold banner, seeking the eyes of Harry Potter. Soon, a vivid green gaze met hers. His expressive eyes betrayed that he was saddened by the results though he nevertheless gave her a tentative smile.

Cyrna released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. _What a relief. Good thing my gamble in defending Slytherin—no matter how irrational that move was—paid off._

She glanced at the Ron who was still waiting to be sorted. His mouth had dropped open, his eyes wide in what she could only describe as utter confusion.

“Turpin, Lisa,” someone called.

Shuffling footsteps brought Cyrna back to awareness. Professor McGonagall had announced the next student. It was time for her to go to her table. Facing the Slytherin table, she watched as Draco sneered at her before leaning in to whisper something to the other students sitting near him.

They looked at her before turning back to Draco, snickering.

She heard scornful whispers of “half-blood” from the Slytherins as she took a few steps away from the stool. Her lips twisted into a frown. ‘ _Come to think of it… why does Malfoy dislike me?_ _Didn’t I help him in the train?’_

Her eyes darted towards Daphne only to be met with a blank expression. A slight shrug from the brunette girl’s shoulders told her everything.

 _She was on her own_.

There was no reason why she should expect Daphne to help when the situation called for her to publicly defend a half-blood and risk her own standing without an obvious benefit. Sure, Daphne knew that she was magically powerful, but with her magic wrapped up and hidden as it was now… how was Daphne supposed to defend her reason for helping her against the rest of the house? There was no evidence for her to work with.

This was different from the boat situation where Daphne only had to risk her reputation with two other Slytherin students.

_I can’t expect Daphne to risk her reputation for me when I’m not willing to risk myself._

She remembered the Hat’s words. Her plan had failed. She needed a new one. There was no way she would be able to linger in the sidelines in Slytherin. Not when she had made an enemy of Malfoy.

Perhaps she could reformulate the old plan. Adapt it to her current circumstance. The chance that it would succeed was low, but to throw out a plan that she had been working on for over a year…

Her gaze lingered for a while longer on Daphne’s eyes before they shifted away. The Slytherins around Malfoy had now stopped snickering; still she could tell from the way their eyes glinted in the light… from the way their lips twisted into a hidden smirk that she would find no peace in the house if she did not change.

Her hands felt clammy. Sweaty. She focused on the Slytherin house.

_Time to make my move._

 

* * *

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed in displeasure as he watched his Slytherins quietly jeer at their newest member. No matter their feelings towards her, they were supposed to stand united in front of the rest of the school.

A meaningful glare towards the Slytherin Prefect prompted the student to action and he quickly shushed the younger students with a warning glance to the staff table where their Head of House sat. The new Slytherins followed their Prefect’s nervous gaze towards the black-clad professor who sat rigidly on his seat—his back ramrod straight—a stark contrast to the other professors who seemed relaxed and comfortably settled into their seats. They shivered when they saw the displeased frown on his face.

Hastily, they turned their gaze away and settled down into polite silence. Well, all except Malfoy who continued to glare heatedly at Ms. Raine.

 _‘What did Lucius teach the boy?_ ’ thought Snape with mild irritation. The boy was so unsubtle in his dislike for their newest member. _Or perhaps, Malfoy_ **wants** _the other Slytherins to know of his dislike_. _Either way_ , his frown deepened, _he would need to have a talk with the youngest Malfoy about maintaining the house image outside of the Slytherin common room._

Snape idly scanned the table once more to make sure all the Slytherins were behaving properly and was about to focus back on the sorting when a sudden shift of magic caused him to swivel his widened gaze back on his newest Slytherin who was slowly making her way to the table.

He was not the only one who had noticed.

From the corner of his eyes, Snape watched as Dumbledore suddenly leaned forward in his seat, his eyes focused on Ms. Raine. With each step she took, magic seemed grow to heavier and heavier in the air, and when she finally reached the Slytherin table, there was not a single pair of eyes that was not on the slight figure of the raven-haired girl.

Even the Muggle-born first years, who knew nothing about magic, were darting nervous glances towards the Slytherin table where Ms. Raine was heading towards. The air vibrated with magic, tense, and if his eyes were not mistaken, he could vaguely see a silver glow that seemed to radiate from her as her hair danced from the gentle swirl of wind that seemed to surround her.

He hadn’t noticed that he had been staring—so absorbed by the magic saturating the Great Hall that he had only managed to reign in his focus when he heard a soft hiss—“ _My Lord,_ s _he’s powerful. Isn’t she_ ,” coming from the usually-stammering professor beside him.

He glanced discretely at his colleague and his eyes widened imperceptibly in alarm when he saw a crazed, manic glint enter Quirrell’s eyes as he stared fixedly at the newest Slytherin. Snape willed his expression back to his blank gaze of neutrality, not wanting Quirrell to notice his observations, and slowly rested his fingers lightly on his wand.

_Dumbledore was right to tell me to keep an eye on Quirrell._

_He’s not as he was before his sabbatical._

 

* * *

 

 

 _‘Think, Cyrna_ ,’ she instructed herself as she stared at the snickering Slytherins, ‘ _what is something that would protect me from Malfoy—from the majority of the Slytherin house? They value ambition and cunning… but above all, what they value cumulates to one thing…’_

_Power._

_That’s why they pander to the Malfoys. They are rich and influential. They have so much political power, it would be illogical not to._

Her gaze darted to the brown-haired Slytherin and met Daphne’s blue eyes.

 _‘She’s waiting for my next move_ ,’ Cyrna realized, ‘ _She wants me to give her a reason that I am worth the risk she will have to put herself through if she chooses to support me. It’s true that I could use the Flamel’s name to give me some power… I’m sure it carries some weight in the political world, but that name also comes with dangers from those who want to learn how to make or steal the Stone.’_

_There is nothing else I have that would earn the Slytherins’ respect except…_

Cyrna’s grip on her uniform tightened, her hands trembling slightly with nervousness.

 _Except for my magic_.

_But revealing my magic is the same as asking for attention. It would make my plans to just stay in the shadows and not play any role in the future more difficult._

_However._

_The opposing option to just lay down and take whatever insults, mocking, and attacks from the Slytherin house for the next few years does not sit well with me either. I don’t want to have to constantly watch my back when I’m in my dorm during the 6 th and 7th year of Hogwarts…_

_And there’s also the fact that the Hat, in its own way, warned me to change my approach for my plan…_

Decision made, Cyrna slowly made to unravel her tight hold on her magic as she moved towards her house table. Little by little, her cooped up magic ran free and circled around her in a gentle swirl as it enjoyed its taste of freedom.

_Hopefully the Slytherins won’t realize that my show of power is just a bluff._

Her hands shivered from the exertion it took to control the sudden increase of magic.

_I only know how to hide and release my magic, and the only wandless magic I can successfully do are limited to the basic ‘accio’ and ‘wingardium leviosa.’_

Small beads of sweat had formed by the time she stood in front of Daphne—in front of the Slytherin table. She felt a rush of relief when she saw Daphne stand up in response and extend her hand as an invitation.

_I don’t know how to defend or harm anyone with my magic yet._

Glowing crystal eyes filled with confidence met sky-blue eyes which expressed respect tinged with awe and pleasure.

_With this little show, hopefully I’ll be left alone this year from Malfoy._

Her hands grasped Daphne’s and she shook it firmly, eyes showing no sign of her uneasy thoughts.

Daphne’s lips curved up into a welcoming smile.

“Cyrna. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Daphne,” Cyrna smiled politely as she released her hold on her magic. Her magic dispersed and settled comfortably in the air, and the wind, which Cyrna hadn’t noticed until now, stopped blowing. Her hand which had been firmly gripping Daphne’s in a handshake tightened as the exhaustion from controlling her sudden increase of magic crashed into her.

The hand holding hers tightened in response, and she faintly heard the rustling of clothing and the hurried shuffle of footsteps before she was sat down on the seat beside Daphne which had previously been occupied by the stocky girl she had been with on the boat ride to Hogwarts— _Millicent was her name… I think_ —she wondered in her daze.

Sitting down, the world seem to shift and blur together. Shades of black and grey lined the edges of her vision as she stared vacantly at the blurring golden plates and utensils placed on the table. Faintly, she heard a jovial voice exclaim some nonsensical words before the crowds of students broke into cheers and applause.

“Cyrna… _Cyrna!_ ” hissed a voice beside her.

“Hmm?” she murmured dreamingly, her world blackened alarmingly as she tilted her head to face the voice.

Suddenly she felt an intense sting of pain on the back of her hand. Her body jumped into action. Her arm jerked back, her mind awoke from its stupor, and her vision focused, if ever so slightly, on the figure sitting beside her.

“I understand that the purpose of your move was to prove your worth and your place in Slytherin,” Daphne whispered quickly, “and the members of Slytherin _are_ reevaluating you as we speak—but know that if you continue to look half-dead, your show of magic will be wasted. Here,” Cyrna felt her hand close around a small bottle, “it’s a Pepper-up potion,” Daphne whispered when she saw Cyrna move to inspect the bottle, “it’ll help you… look _alive_ for a while longer.”

“Hopefully it’ll last till the end of dinner,” Cyrna muttered as she cast one last critical look at the given potion before taking a sip.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Wow._ Cyrna thought as she blinked couple of times, her vision returning back to normal. _I have to try to make this later once I get my hands on some bicorn horns and mandrake roots._

“Beef, chicken, pork, or lamb?” asked Daphne as she reached for more gravy.

“The lamb looks amazing tonight—Oh! thanks,” said Cyrna as Nott silently passed her the plate of lamb chops.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

“I myself prefer the roast chicken,” started Daphne, “it’s not bad.”

“Really?” teased Theodore with a hint of a smile, “I would have thought that someone of your status would have preferred beef or lamb—"

“—Says the person of a similar upbringing who has a plate filled with roast chicken,” smirked Daphne.

“Not much I can do about it.” Theodore shrugged. “Our new friend here,” he gestured at Cyrna, “appears to enjoy her lamb, which is the only other dish near me. So since I gave her the lamb, I’m—unfortunately—left with the chicken.”

“Nott,” scoffed a tall, dark skinned boy seated across from Malfoy, “the beef and the pork is literally an arm’s reach away from you.”

“For you perhaps, Zabini. But I’m afraid the beef is quite a distance away for _my_ arms,” replied Theodore, “I’m nowhere near as tall or lanky as you yet.”

The boy rolled his eyes and was about to answer when the girl seated next to him leaned over to meet Cyrna’s eyes, brown hair carelessly brushing over the Yorkshire pudding sitting on Daphne’s dish, and spoke in a voice filled with contempt, “Dear Merlin, _please_ tell me you are _not_ a Mudblood.”

The first-year side of the Slytherin table fell quiet at the spoken slur.

 _‘Are they watching for a reaction?’_ wondered Cyrna with annoyance at the Slytherin’s antics. She was much too tired to be playing mind games. _They want to know where I stand in my political views_ … _well either way, if it is a reaction they want, they are not going to get one… let them wonder for longer._

Cyrna gave a friendly smile. “It would be my pleasure to tell you exactly that. After all, I _am_ a Half-blood.”

The brunette’s face wrinkled up with disgust. “So your blood is half filthy,” she sneered.

“Afraid so,” replied Cyrna keeping her smile, “and you must be Pansy Parkinson, the heiress of the Parkinson family, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“I am,” she preened, “how did you know?”

“Oh I didn’t know for certain,” Cyrna casually started, “but when you so confidently used that slur—as if we were not sitting just a few feet away from the Professors and the Headmaster—I realized that someone of such great mental capacity could only match one person—you.”

“Well,” Pansy giggled, “thank you, but flattery will not overcome your tainted blood.”

There was a moment of silence before muffled snickering could be heard from Theodore.

“Oh, this is too good,” he muttered, still snickering.

“Be quiet Theodore! Whose side are you on?” hissed Blaise.

“As if you can talk,” Daphne snorted. “I can see your mouth twitching, Zabini,” said Daphne with a huge grin on her face.

Cyrna looked around the table and saw the clueless faces of Parkinson along with Millicent, Crabbe, and Goyle amongst the varying expressions of the other Slytherins. Perhaps she should’ve held herself back—Pansy _was_ still a child.

“Well,” Cyrna sighed as she took a bite from her lamp chop, “point proven.”

“Point proven indeed,” murmured Daphne amusedly.

Cyrna was about to take another small sip of the pepper-up potion when Pansy’s grating voice piped up, “Wait. _What_ point?”

At this Theodore and Daphne appeared to be seized by a sudden attack of coughs. Zabini sighed, and Millicent, Crabbe, and Goyle continued looking on with a blank expression.

“ _What—”_

“Pansy,” Malfoy finally interrupted irritably, “please, just _shut up_.”

“But why, Draco?” she whined.

“ _Because_ ,” he hissed, “every word you speak just continues to prove Raine’s point about your stupidity!”

“Stupidity?” she asked, confused.

“Yes!” he whispered furiously, “she called you stupid, and you _thanked her_ for—and I quote—her _‘flattery’_!”

Pansy spun around, a look of indignation written plainly on her face. “You’ve made a fool of me, Cyrna,” she hissed in anger.

Cyrna frowned. Shouldn’t Pansy have been prepared for a retaliation from her insult? An insult for an insult. _‘Why is she acting as if she is the victim?’_ wondered Cyrna. ‘ _How illogical.’_

“Shouldn’t you—” began Cyrna.

“—No,” cut in Daphne coldly, “you’ve made a fool of yourself. You should have been prepared for an insult; Cyrna won that spar fairly.”

There was a moment of tense silence as the two Slytherins glared at each other before the dinner food vanished from the table to be replaced with countless assortments of desserts.

Cyrna helped herself to a gorgeous slice of apple pie and tried to ignore the evaluating glances from the other Slytherins on the table. She took the final sip of her Pepper-up potion and tucked the used vial into her pocket, praying that it would get her through till bedtime.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t think I’ve experienced worse singing in all of my life,” muttered Draco as the first-year Slytherins followed their Prefect through the dark, winding corridors, down into dungeons which would have been pitch black if not for the occasional lamps lighting the passageway.

 _‘For once, I agree with Malfoy_ , _’_ thought Cyrna with a shiver as she remembered the disharmony of the school song.

The candlelight shone eerily, casting strange shadows across the cobblestone walls. The taps of the footsteps from the first-years echoed loudly as they approached a long hallway that seemed to stretch continuously into the dark.

“And we’re here!” exclaimed Farley, the prefect, after coming to a sudden stop in the middle of the corridor.

Cyrna looked around.

From her front, she saw nothing but stretches upon stretches of darkness; at her back was the staircase leading back up to the Entrance Hall. To her sides, were what you would expect to see in hallways—rough stone walls.

“We’re here?” whispered Daphne questioningly.

“Doubtful that the prefect is pulling a prank on us, so yes, we are here,” replied Theodore sarcastically.

“Mhm, the chance that the prefect would do that is rather low,” agreed Cyrna, “there’s probably an entrance somewhere on one of the side walls.”

“It’s going to be such a pain to find the common room every day,” sighed Daphne.

“Oh! It’s not too bad,” said the prefect having heard the conversation, “a hint from me to all you first-years: just walk till you reach the 20th candle, tap the stone right under its shadow—” she gave a tap and a soft rumbling could be heard “—then you say the password, which in this case is—”

“ _Unity_.”

The rumbling quickly died down once the password was said and the wall, which previously had been solid stone, seemed to melt into the shadows, disappearing to form a stone archway into a room that glowed softly with pale green light.  

“Girls up the stairs on the right and boys on the left,” directed the prefect.

Cyrna slowly followed the group of first-year Slytherins slowly into the common room. _‘The potion is starting to lose its effect,’_ she thought as each step seemed to require more and more effort to take. _‘I didn’t think that it would require that much more energy to control my released magic.’_

_“Hey, Cyrna….”_

_“Cyrna!”_

She vaguely registered a voice call her name through the fuzziness in her mind, though she did remember a hand leading her across the common room into the girl’s dormitory, and that somehow in her daze, she had managed to follow.

Stumbling over the plush emerald rug, she collapsed onto a bed and had just managed to kick off her shoes and pull her legs under the bedsheets when the potion completely lost its effect.

Her eyelids closed, and her breathing evened out into one of deep slumber.

_‘I’ll deal with the repercussions of my actions tomorrow.’_


	12. Slytherin

A small raven-haired child sat huddled in the corner of a dark room. There were no windows. No light. Loud, joyous laughter along with the occasional conversation could be heard from above. The thumps on the ceiling of the room indicated that there were people walking around.

There was a time when the child had tried to leave the dark room. Tapping on the walls. Crying. Screaming. However, soon she learnt that it was all in vain. The door that she found after dragging her body up four flights of stairs never opened no matter how many times she threw herself against it. It was completely sealed shut without allowing a single stream of light to shine through.

Still. She remembered.

She remembered the time when she had first opened her eyes and had seen the world.

She remembered the circle of elders that huddled around her with expressions of panic.

She remembered gazing at the endless blue sky in the arms of a black-haired man who carried her roughly across lush green fields, before arriving at a beautiful mansion.

She remembered the beauty of the day, and the majesty of the night as the stars glimmered quietly.

She remembered the light. The world.

She remembered.

The child remained huddled for a moment longer before she flexed her wrist, causing a spark of flame to appear shimmering just above her palm. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed, hypnotized by her only source of light, and made a wish.

 

_“Just once more. I wish to see the world.”_

 

*****

 

With every passing moment, the harder it became to breathe. Her breath quickened gradually and eventually her mind began to surface into consciousness.

 _‘What’s happening?’_ she thought groggily, the last vestiges of sleep leaving her.

She took a deep breath with her mouth, and instantly choked on a mouthful of hair—

—or was it fur?

Cyrna’s eyes flew open, and right in front of her, was a white fluffy bush of fur that was lazily moving up and down across her face. Her arms felt heavy as she tiredly lifted them to push the bundle of fluff that was purring contentedly by her ear.

“You’re lucky that school starts on Tuesday.”

Cyrna shifted painfully to sit up, every muscle resisting movement.

“Good morning, Daphne,” she greeted drowsily, rubbing her eyes as Prince meowed unhappily now that his source of warmth was gone. The sheets rustled as Cyrna got out of bed and blearily slipped on her shoes that had been tossed haphazardly by her bed. “What time is it?”

“Definitely not morning,” came Daphne’s voice from the desk by the windows. “You’re thirty minutes into lunch break.”

“Wait that means,” said Cyrna, mind gradually coming to full alertness, “that I’ve slept for _sixteen hours?_ ” Her eyes widened incredulously. “I’ve missed History,” she groaned as she thought of the class schedule that she had received during dinner last night.

“It’s fine,” said Daphne as she turned around to face Cyrna from her desk, “we didn’t really learn much—and honestly, most of the students were also sleeping.”

“Yeah, and missing the first class on the first day of school is definitely going to make a great first expression on the teachers,” Cyrna muttered sarcastically.

Daphne shrugged, “well I heard from the upper years that our Head of House doesn’t care too much about History and Astronomy. Of course, he’ll never verbally give us permission to skip it, but he won’t rebuke us either for skipping, and—”

“—and that is basically him giving us a pass to skip the class,” finished Cyrna.

“Or at least every so often,” said Daphne with a grin, “actually, I’m surprised you’re even awake right now. I thought you’d be much more exhausted from your performance yesterday.”

Cyrna smiled sheepishly as she gingerly made her way to the bathroom. “Well if awake means feeling like death washed over you, then—” she shrugged—"I guess you can say I’m awake.”

Daphne snorted in amusement, and for the next few moments, only the sounds of writing and the occasional sound of water pouring out from the tap could be heard.

“I told the other girls that you slept in because you didn’t really care about going to History when they asked,” Daphne suddenly spoke from the silence.

“Oh.”

‘ _I should have tried to stay awake to a decent time to avoid suspicion_ ,’ thought Cyrna regretfully, ‘ _the explanation Daphne made is not bad, but it is flawed… still, it’s  better than answering honestly and telling them that I was exhausted from controlling my magic._ ’

Cyrna sighed. “I hope they won’t examine the explanation in detail.”

“Do you really think Pansy and Millicent have the intelligence to do that?” Daphne snorted, voice dripping with scorn.

“It’s unprobable, but possible.”

A brow arched in response, “you give them too much credit, but I guess being careful has never cost anyone.”

 

*****

 

Blue eyes blinked open, and Prince ruffled his fur before jumping gracefully off the bed and strolling up to Cyrna who was brushing her teeth. His stomach growled as he sidled up to Cyrna’s leg, purring loudly.

Finished rinsing her mouth, Cyrna knelt down and scooped Prince up. “Time for food, hm?” she murmured quietly against his ears.

Prince’s ears twitched, and he hopped out of her arms and sprinted out the dormitory.

“Heading for lunch?” asked Daphne, who had turned back to face the stack of papers lying on her desk.

“Yes.”

Cyrna hurriedly checked for her wand and attempted to straighten her robes.

“Then you had better hurry because class starts in twenty minutes,” said Daphne amusedly.

Cyrna glanced once at the clock that sat on top of the fireplace before she rushed to grab her Transfiguration textbook and notebooks.

“I’ll find you later then!” Cyrna called as she dashed out of the Slytherin common room.

Daphne smiled in response before she turned her attention back to the paper lying on her desk. She continued to write, occasionally changing some parts before she appeared to be satisfied.

A while later, a shrill whistle was heard followed by a blur hurtling through the air a few seconds later.

“Regulus,” said Daphne as the owl landed lightly on the perch that hung above her desk. It gazed steadily at her; its golden feathers flecked with black shimmered softly under the firelight. Daphne took one last look at the letter she had written before signing her name at the bottom of the page.

Five more minutes left till class showed the clock.

The quiet rustling of paper accompanied by the crackling of the flames filled the room as Daphne quickly sealed the envelope. She waited for the wax to cool down slightly before stamping her family insignia on the envelope.

“To tell father I’ve met someone interesting,” Daphne murmured softly to her owl as she fastened the letter on its leg. Its charcoal-coloured beak opened as it trilled quietly in response before it spread its wings and soared away.

 

*****

 

“Prince, Prince!” called Cyrna as she exited the common room. “Where has he gone?” she muttered as she slowly made her way up the stairs.

Despite being in the middle of the day, the darkness of the dungeons remained, and now that she could see slightly better, she noted that the walls, in some areas, seemed to be damp, though there were never any puddles on the ground.

All in all, along with the occasional dripping sounds, the dungeon was not the cheeriest place in Hogwarts. She picked up her pace when she heard a bell ring, signifying, what she assumed to be, the last fifteen minutes of lunch break. Within a few moments she was out, and just as she exited near the Entrance Hall, she spotted a white streak turning into the Great Hall.

Cyrna sighed and followed in.

The Great Hall, unlike the time at the dinner feast, was fairly empty. Most of the students had eaten and were either heading to their next class or to the library or common room for studying and socializing; still, there were a  few students from each of the houses chattering amicably or studying quietly by themselves. She headed towards the Slytherin table and sat down on an empty spot, and instantly a few plates filled with an assortment of foods appeared before her.

She had been helping herself to a second spoon of mash potatoes when she heard a persistent meow from behind her.

“Finally here, Prince?” asked Cyrna with a mouthful of food.

She expected to either hear a meow in response or feel the usual brush of fur as Prince sidled up to her, asking to be fed. Instead—

—“ _Prince_?”

Her hand which had been outstretched to scoop more potatoes paused mid-action. Her grip on the spoon tightened before it relaxed. She finished the action, and once she had her mash potatoes resting on her plate, she turned around with a beguilingly neutral expression.

“Good afternoon, Professor Snape,” she greeted carefully.

His face remained impassive, his gaze cold as he slowly raised an eyebrow in impatience.

The depthless eyes boring into hers seemed to be capable of reading her every thought and secret—which, Cyrna realized, could be happening.

Quickly, she shifted her gaze so that she was looking just below his eyes.

“Oh Prince is the name of my cat,” she said, her mouth dry as she stared at Prince in trepidation who continued to sniff and paw at the hem of the Professor’s black robes, leaving trails of white hair in his wake.

The eyebrow arched further. Unimpressed.

Cyrna laughed nervously.

The professor’s narrowed eyes seemed to analyze her for a moment longer before being replaced by an unnaturally empty gaze as he looked down impassively at Prince. His lips twisted down unpleasantly in displeasure at the sight of his robes slowly being covered with white.

He gave a sharp yank on his robe, sending the ball of fur tumbling back towards Cyrna’s feet. His eyes snapped towards Cyrna, noting the expression of surprise that crossed her face before she fell back to a blank expression.

“You would do well to look after your cat,” Snape drawled, “before he ends up with the… _misfortune_ of participating as an ingredient in one of my potions.”

Prince meowed piteously as he made to move towards the black-clad Professor.

Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted off from the ground into familiar arms. His human whispered gently to him, all the while scratching the back of his ears just the way he liked it. He purred contentedly and relaxed into the arms.

“Yes sir,” answered Cyrna deferentially, “my apologies.”

_Don’t pick unnecessary fights, Cyrna—especially one that’ll make your school life ten times more taxing._

She felt the probing gaze roam over her face. The Professor’s thin lips twisted into a thoughtful frown for a moment before smoothing out. “And I _do_ hope your class-skipping tendencies will not persist till Friday,” he said, voice dripping in sarcasm, before he swept off towards the exit of the Great Hall.

Cyrna made a mental note to never miss her Potions class, no matter what the cost.

Still, she frowned, staring at Prince as she walked to class, “Why were you bothering him, Prince?” she asked her cat, who appeared to be sleeping, “You’re never friendly with strangers.”

A content purr rumbling through the cat was the only response.

 

*****

 

“Transfigurations,” Professor McGonagall started when all the students had arrived, “is an art—a branch of magic that can change the form and appearance of an object… or person.”

Sounds of quills scratching the paper filled the room as the Ravenclaws rushed to copy down the speech word for word.

“However,” she paused, taking the time to meet each student’s gaze sternly, “it is also some of the most complex and _dangerous_ magic—”

“ _Sick_ ,” whispered Malfoy with a smile to Goyle, who grunted in response.

“I’ve heard it’s one of the hardest classes in Hogwarts,” muttered Daphne quietly to Cyrna who was copying down the Professor’s introduction.

“Mhm,” answered Cyrna distractedly, “There is a lot of science and calculations needed for Transfigurations—especially in the upper levels…” Cyrna flipped open the textbook to the pages that, based on the outline, would be covered in today’s lesson and scanned them, “... extremely specific conditions have to be met for the transformation formula to be applied successfully for the more complex stuff.”

“Very good, Ms. Raine.”

Cyrna looked up from the textbook to see Professor McGonagall looking at her with a curious expression before she continued pacing across the classroom.

“As your classmate said, Transfigurations can become quite complex, and thus, quite dangerous. Anyone,” she stressed, “ _anyone_ messing around in my class will leave and _not_ come back. You have been warned.”

Professor McGonagall levelled one last severe glance at the class collectively before she turned to the board and began the lecture. She spoke in a normal volume, yet her voice seemed to echo throughout the room, commanding attention.

There were all sorts of students in the class. Some began dozing off after the first 20 minutes of lecture, while others were frantically writing everything down. Some just sat and listened attentively to the Professor, and others stared blankly at the board, not understanding what was being taught.

“Sure you shouldn’t have been placed in Ravenclaw, Raine?” sneered Malfoy as he watched her take notes from the lecture. “There is no need for _Slytherins_ to lower themselves down to do such tasks,” he bragged, “ _my father_ has already arranged an agreement with a top student from Ravenclaw, second year, to give me his notes and work—oh, but then again, you’re just a common _Half-blood_.” He smirked, “You’ve got no connections with any of the upper years.”

“True,” said Cyrna absentmindedly as she continued to focus on the lecture, ignoring the perceived insult, “but I’ll remember and understand the material better if I make my own notes.”

Malfoy snorted, “Like I said. Ravenclaw. I just need to pass with a high score—I’m sure father will figure something out for the exam.”

“I thought you were interested in Transfigurations,” noted Cyrna with a bit of surprise.

“Yeah. It sounds wicked,” Malfoy replied carelessly, “If I end up being good at it, then great. If I don’t, it’s no huge loss—after all, I’ll inherit the Malfoy estate. I’m not going to waste time stressing over school when I’m already destined to be one of the richest in Wizarding Britain.”

Parkinson giggled quietly by Malfoy’s side, “Yes, Raine, if we truly wanted to learn, _we_ wouldn’t come to Hogwarts. _We’d stay at home_. It’s not hard getting private tutors that are just as good, if not more famous than some of the Professors here.”

Cyrna paused in her writing. She frowned.

“Surely not every Slytherin thinks that.”

She subtly shifted her gaze to Daphne who appeared to have written only one or two sentences down on her page. Daphne caught her gaze before she looked away and began fiddling with her quill.

“Well,” Daphne cleared her throat, “Most of the Pureblood family heirs have already been tutored on the core subjects, or at least the practical parts of it.” Daphne’s gaze darted briefly towards Cyrna. “What Pansy said _is_ true for most Slytherins,” she whispered awkwardly, “we— _myself included_ —didn’t come here to learn.” Her focus returned to the Professor who was now moving onto a practical demonstration of Transfigurations by changing her desk to a pig, then back again. “Can you guess why we are here, Cyrna?”

_…well I heard from the upper years…_

_…an agreement with a top student…_

_…no connections…_

“To form connections…” Cyrna murmured thoughtfully, “with the upper students, but also with your peers. You’re looking for potential business partners—people that may be useful to you in the future.”

“Mm, yeah,” said Parkinson, idly twirling a strand of her hair, “that _does_ sound similar to what my parents told me to do.”

 _A valid line of thinking_ , Cyrna mused as she scribbled down the diagram on the chalkboard onto her notebook, _but for me, knowledge and information could be the difference between life and death_.

 

*****

 

Daphne stretched leisurely on the couch by the windows in the common room. “And that’s one day down,” she yawned.

“Whoever had the idea of giving us a double period of Transfigurations _needs_ to be fired,” muttered Draco as he sat down with a huff.

Theodore smirked, “Upset that the first lesson wasn’t as easy as you expected?”

“Well, I may have struggled, but at least my match turned somewhat silver… unlike _someone’s_ ,” smirked Malfoy, gazing at Cyrna who had holed herself in the study corner of the room ever since they had left Transfigurations.

Pansy giggled while Daphne shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“You keep forgetting, _Draco dear_ , that _her_ blood is _different_ from ours,” said Pansy gaily, “you can’t expect her to perform as well as _us_.”

Draco snickered.

“Maybe she just needs time,” said Theodore with a bored voice, “I know I wasn’t able to do it immediately the first time.”

Shrill laughter was heard followed by soft snickering, “Yeah, but it’s the first time that someone has been unable to cause _any_ change on the match. You should have seen McGonagall’s expression when she watched Raine attempt to transfigure it into a needle and _nothing_ —not even a twitch—happened,” said Pansy.

“Yes, that _must_ have been the highlight of my day—"

 “Actually,” Daphne interjected Draco pensively, “what is strange is that out of all of us, I think Cyrna was the one who truly understood the formula and the purpose for each step.”

“Did she?” asked Pansy with a smirk.

“Yes. She broke down the components of each step for me when we were practising, and after she explained the formula and the reasons, I was able to fully transfigure my match.”

“Daphne _was_ the only one with a perfect needle at the end,” added Blaise as he strolled into the room, “and can I add—thank Merlin our astronomy lab doesn’t start today?”

“It’ll start next week once we have our lecture,” answered Daphne distractedly.

“I’m not going to deal with it,” Draco drawled as he relaxed on the couch, “I’ll just pay a Ravenclaw to do my lab for me—it’s not like Sinistra supervises the labs…”

The aimless conversation continued on for a few hours, and during this time, Daphne contemplated on the strangeness that was her new companion:

_She’s intelligent and powerful—even if she can’t control all of it yet… she understood the theory behind the formula as if it was nothing but simple math to her…_

_Why wasn’t she able to transfigure the match?_

Eyebrows slightly furrowed, Daphne politely excused herself from the group of Slytherins that had clustered around the couches and made her way over to the small study lounge.

“Hey Cyrna,” she greeted as she walked towards the raven-haired girl who was frantically flipping through several books and jotting down notes every so and then, “how’s the studying going?”

The scrawling stopped abruptly. The hand holding the quill shook for a second before it relaxed and placed the quill down on the table.

Daphne heard a quiet release of breath before Cyrna turned around.

The pale green light which lit up the Slytherin room glowed softly across Cyrna’s features, and the play of aqua-coloured light from the lake water outside the windows along with her companion’s pitch-black hair and pale skin only seemed to accentuate those blue eyes.

She watched her companion’s mouth move, but her only focus was on the eyes that seemed to glow brighter and brighter as Cyrna continued to talk on. The way they reflected the light… they shone like gems… crystals. It was unnatural. Offsetting. They glowed eerily in the darkness, painting an ephemeral look on Cyrna.

But…

They were also utterly captivating, and for a moment, under the blue-green light, she believed she was no longer talking to a human—rather, she was talking to a faerie, a creature of legends.

Suddenly

A small, thin stick was thrust into her vision, breaking whatever spell she felt she had been under.

“See,” she heard the frustrated voice of her companion, “it doesn’t matter what I do, it still remains the same!”

Daphne blinked a couple of times to clear her mind. She subtly shifted her gaze back on Cyrna’s, and strangely enough, the eyes, which she swore had been glowing, were back to their normal crystal blue hue.

Daphne cleared her throat awkwardly, having realized that she had been silent for a while. “Well, maybe you’re still exhausted from yesterday?”

Cyrna pursed her lips and let out an irritated sigh. “Perhaps,” she said, her gaze taking on a faraway expression as she ran through the theories, calculations, and the formulas that she just read from the stack of Transfiguration books she had borrowed from the library.

 _There’s no way I executed the wandwork incorrectly… my methods should have been perfect._ She flipped to a page filled with scrawls of calculations and reviewed them mentally. _Nope, nothing wrong here. I even adjusted the formula for the wandwork and incantation to accommodate my magical strength._

_No… there is no way my theory is wrong…_

“I’m not wrong,” Cyrna muttered quietly to herself.

Daphne warily regarded her.

 _What did I just see… were her eyes really glowing?—Merlin, did I even actually see anything?_ She frowned lightly in confusion.

She glanced at Cyrna who seemed to be waiting for her response.

_I’ll think about that later._

“Well, you’ve got to be doing _something_ wrong, otherwise you’d be able to transfigure the matchstick.”

“And that,” exclaimed Cyrna as she abruptly got up from her seat, grabbed the books, and made her out the common room, “is the issue.”

Daphne hurried to catch up with her companion who was still muttering furiously to herself.

“I am not wrong _, but_ it’s true that I can’t transfigure the matchstick. She was able to perform it perfectly when I helped her—so my theory and method of approach _should_ be correct—”

“—I’ll have you know, Cyrna,” said Daphne with a slight frown as she followed Cyrna out the side entrance that led to the steep hill overlooking the Black Lake, “that I’ve always been good at Transfigurations.”

_The way Daphne’s eyes had widened… the flash of surprise before her expression morphed into one of casual disinterest._

_No_ , Cyrna thought with a hidden smile, _today was the first time Daphne transfigured it so perfectly_. _She’s not dull, so she must know that her results today were due to my instructions. She could have let my statement go… she didn’t have much to gain from defending her abilities… which means…_

_… that she doesn’t want me to know that I’ve helped her… and that to some extent, perhaps subconsciously, she has pride in her ability in Transfigurations._

“Of course,” Cyrna said, “I didn’t mean to imply anything like that—”

_I’m not going to call her out on this until I have a better understanding of her reaction… perhaps I can use this information in the future for some sort of benefit._

“—what I mean is that since my instructions didn’t seem to hinder your ability, perhaps the issue for me does actually lie in me myself.”

A pause.

“Alright,” Daphne answered.

Another pause.

Daphne looked around warily.

“So why are we heading to the hill?”

Cyrna’s smile brightened.

“You aren’t allowed to practice magic in the halls of Hogwarts—but here—" her eyes glittered with excitement as her hair whipped crazily in the wind. She gestured to the castle which was quite a distance away, “… I would like you to test some theories for me.”


	13. Reaffirmations

_“I would like you to test some theories for me.”_

“Theories?” Daphne asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes,” Cyrna answered. Her eyes shifted to gaze at the still waters of the Black Lake. She seemed think for a while before she murmured quite softly, “there are two things which I suspect are hindering my abilities.”

The sky was still a beautiful blue though tendrils of soft pink and yellow had begun to creep in, announcing the imminent arrival of the evening. The wind whistled peacefully around them, stirring the branches of the tall tree they stood under.

Daphne stood silently behind Cyrna who had wandered slightly further ahead, eyes focused on the waters below them. She thought back to what she had seen in the common room:

_Cyrna was flipping through a few books while frantically jotting down notes when she had walked towards the study corner. She really hadn’t thought much about it at that moment. After all, looking through textbooks was the norm when you were studying._

_Then, she had seen those blue eyes. Those startling, uncanny, glowing blue eyes which had distracted her from hearing whatever Cyrna had been saying._

_Once she had snapped out of her daze, she had chanced a glance at Cyrna’s crowded desk before her companion had quickly gathered her books and notes and had basically ran out of the common room._

_A Guide to Advanced Transfigurations… The Theory of Transfigurations…_

_Those had been surprising to see on Cyrna desk. But what was even more surprising:_

_Transfigurations: Discussing the Variables for the Formulaic Creation of Spells._

That book was something that Daphne remembered distinctly.

It was just two years prior, when looking through her mentor’s tall stack of dusty books, that she had seen this book. Its beautiful leather binding lined sparingly with gold had called to her attention. She had flipped through it curiously and had attempted to decipher the meaning of the first passage for quite a while before she had given up and had ended up just looking through the diagrams and images. Then an hour or so later, her mentor had returned, had chuckled upon seeing her read the book, and had gently explained to her that this book was far too difficult for her young mind to understand.

He promised that he would teach this book to her if she passed her N.E.W.T.S with an O to prove to him that she was ready.

And Daphne, large blue eyes blinking solemnly, had sworn to do so.

 _How is it possible that Cyrna can understand that book’s content?_ _Even now, I can’t understand the concepts at all…_

Daphne heaved a sigh, causing Cyrna to turn around and look at her inquisitively.

_If she can understand that text then she must truly be brilliant, not to mention that she’s powerful too._

Daphne warily assessed her companion.

_And Slytherins know better than to assume that name means everything. Your name can get you far—very far, but it is power alone that allows you to rise above the law. Take the Headmaster and the Flamels for example, they obey simply out of the goodness of their hearts; if they chose to disobey, who could stop them? Certainly not the ordinary wizards of the Wizengamot._

_I’ve been viewing her as a tool that had the possibility to further the greatness of my household when I should have been viewing her as an ally of equal terms._

_And the first step to show her my intentions…_

“You want me to help you prove or disprove one of the suspected causes.”

Cyrna nodded before her mouth pursed into a slight frown as if she had just realized something. “I’ll owe you a favour for this.”

She had meant this as a statement, though it came out more as a question.

Daphne readily gave a slight shrug. “No need.” She hesitated, before giving a small smile, “After all, we’re _friends,_ aren’t we? There’s no need to play the _favour-for-a-favour_ game amongst friends—though if this complicates things, you could just take this as a payment for your help in class today,” she finished nervously.

_Friends._

Cyrna frowned slightly at that word.

_Friends…_

_…_

“… Of course.”

Daphne exhaled a quiet breath of relief.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Cyrna comforted with a small grin when she saw her new friend’s nervousness.

“Great,” Daphne cleared her throat awkwardly, regaining her composure, “Let’s get on with your little trials then, shall we?”

“Let’s,” Cyrna agreed before she strolled back to the tree where Daphne had been standing and retrieved a notebook and quill. She flipped the notebook open to the next blank page and carefully inked in “ _Trial One: Control_ ” as the heading.

“Control?” questioned Daphne who had leaned over to see what Cyrna was writing.

“Hm, yeah. For this one, we’ll just have you perform the transfiguration spell on the match. Nothing new or special.”

Cyrna gave the match to Daphne and watched as it unsurprisingly turned into a perfect needle. Cyrna jotted down the results before labelling the next page with, ” _Trial Two: Wand.”_

Daphne curiously watched as Cyrna wrote the next heading and wondered what “ _wand”_ had meant until she watched in shock as Cyrna casually pulled out her wand and offered it to her.

Daphne stared at it blankly before she switched her gaze back to Cyrna’s. She laughed nervously.

“You can’t be serious!” Daphne exclaimed, eyes widening. _Dear Merlin, my friend must be mad._

Cyrna tilted her head in confusion until she remembered that it was only rarely a wizard or witch offered their wand for another to use. It was a part of you, usually only separated at death, and even then, some wands chose to die along with its masters.

One of the highest acts of trust and faith. That was what she had given Daphne.

Cyrna paled, not having meant this. Though, she supposed, while trying very hard not to jerk her wand away, this action would only benefit her relationship with Daphne. If nothing, it would at least guilt Daphne into reciprocating the action to some degree.

“Just take it and use it to transfigure the match using the same steps you did in the previous trial,” Cyrna instructed calmly without betraying any of the regrets and nervousness she felt, “This is the second experiment.”

Daphne assessed Cyrna one last time, and having seen no changes in her friend’s intent, gave a short bark of nervous laughter before carefully plucking the offered wand from the outstretched hand and dutifully attempted to perform the transfiguration spell on the match.

The match rolled around and trembled before it began to narrow. She felt a greater draw on her magic, but no matter how much she gave, she was unable to transfigure the property of wood to metal.

“Hm, good enough,” Cyrna muttered as she wrote down the results.

Daphne instantly let the spell go.

“That was harder, wasn’t it?” Cyrna asked, glancing once at Daphne before resting her sight on her wand which was now grasped in someone else’s hand. Her eyes lingered there for longer until Daphne spoke again.

“Yes,” Daphne released a tired puff of air. “Much more tiring than if I had used my own—but that’s normal. My father told me that some wands are more agreeable to various witches, and the one that chooses you at Ollivanders will allow you to perform to your fullest potential.”

“True,” agreed Cyrna, eyes nervously darting back to her wand, “and for the last trial, I’ll instruct you on the precise steps that I want you to perform with my wand to transfigure the match. It will be slightly different from the wand motion that Professor McGonagall taught us in class… but it should work…”

Daphne watched quietly as Cyrna quickly scribbled out several calculations. She watched as she flipped open the book and scanned through several symbols before choosing one and writing it down on her notebook. ‘ _She’s reformulating the hand motions to accommodate for the changes in using her wand.’_ Daphne thought with wonder.

Cyrna made of few more changes to the symbols—a larger curve, a more prominent slash—before she stretched, seemingly content with her work.

 “Alright,” Cyrna murmured. She reviewed the calculations she had made to adjust the compatibility between her wand and Daphne for this particular spell one last time before she handed the page to Daphne.

She took a step back and watched attentively.

 

*****

_Friends._

A weighted word that came with the connotations of faked gestures and caring words in her old world.

A role that was mentally tiring to her. To always be there for someone. To go out of your way to help this person. To support… to act as if you care when you really don’t.

It was stressful. A necessary evil she had put up with in one of her attempts to learn sympathy and later, something she had kept in order to simply blend in with the rest of society.

Initially, she had been tempted to turn down the offer from Daphne, but even she was not delusional enough to think that she would be able to get through this world, or the next few years in Slytherin, unscathed by herself.

She tapped on her empty plate, signifying to whatever magic was in place, that she was finished her dinner and was ready for desserts. She watched dispassionately, lost in thought, as several slices of apples along with a small jar of chocolate sauce appeared.

 _‘Besides,’_ she mused as she picked up a slice of apple to dip into the sauce, ‘ _what Daphne terms as ‘friends’ may not be the same as what my old world termed as ‘friends.’ To Slytherins perhaps friends is simply another word to call an ally… Perhaps no personal connection or care is required to give to the other party…_

“… I was so surprised that I was able to transfigure the match into a fairly decent needle with your wand,” Daphne chattered on excitedly during dinner.

_Her company also isn’t bad…_

“Mm, yeah,” replied Cyrna distractedly. _Hopefully I made the right decision regarding her… but as for my wand…_

 _That feeling when she had given Daphne her wand…_ Cyrna shivered… _it had felt so wrong. No wonder it’s a rare occurrence to part with your wand. ‘No,’_ she thought, subtly tightening her grip on her wand, ‘ _I’m not doing that again.’_

She continued to make her way slowly through her dessert. _‘So it’s not an issue with my wand…’_

“Say, Daphne, what core is your wand made of?”

Daphne paused in her monologue to scrunch her eyebrows. She seemed to think for a while before saying, “If I remember correctly, I believe it was a dragon heartstring. It’s been a long time since I’ve received my wand though, so I’m not perfectly certain about my answer.” She shrugged. “Why? What’s yours?”

_‘As predicted. That wand core, if I remember correctly is powerful and can easily change loyalties or turn to the dark—highly similar to the Thestral core in its instability, thus, a user of dragon heartstring will have a better result with my wand than say a user of unicorn tail hair.’_

“Thestral tail hair,” Cyrna replied.

_‘My understanding of the concepts and my calculations were right…’_

“Hm, interesting—oh, but Cyrna, did you _see_ the shudder before the wooden brown colour of the match faded so easily to the metallic silver of the needle? Then one of the ends started to thin into a tip—it might not have been terribly sharp, and there might have been a few rough parts on the body of the needle; but dear Merlin, it was damn close to perfection— _and_ I achieved this result with not my own wand but someone else’s! I’ve never realized that…”

Cyrna watched with amusement and slight bit of disbelief as Daphne went right back into continuing her monologue, gushing about the little experiment she had performed, as if Cyrna had never asked a question.

“Unexpected, right?”

Darting a glance to her right, she nearly dropped her glass of water when she saw the expression in Theodore’s eyes when he gazed at Daphne.

_Is that—_

“She gets like this once it’s about transfigurations,” he smirked, meeting Cyrna’s surprised gaze steadily. Whatever expression Cyrna thought she had seen was once again replaced by the usual cold, distant eyes that gave nothing away. “A bit annoying the way she’ll prattle,” he yawned, averting his gaze as he picked at his cake, “but this is one of the only moments that she’ll drop the heiress attitude and simply be Daphne.”

Cyrna watched as Theodore seemed to lose interest as sudden as when he had initiated the conversation. “I see,” she said slowly, chewing on her piece of chocolate-covered apple. Together, at the end of the Slytherin table, they both sat in silence, watching as Daphne’s eyes lit up in rarely seen childish excitement as she chattered on endlessly, each distracted by different thoughts.

_‘Neither my theory, my calculations, nor my wand are the issue…’_

_‘That leaves…’_

 

*****

 

_‘That leaves the caster.’_

_‘Me.’_

She lay down, restlessly shifting positions as she tossed and turned in her attempts to sleep. The darkness enveloped her, and silence reigned if not for the quiet sounds of steady breathing from the beds beside her and the quiet gurgle of the lake-water outside the window of their dormitory.

The warm ball of fur snuggled deeper into her side at the strange sound of a creature, probably a grindylow, rapping on the glass windows. Without much thought, the girl reached out her hand to soothe her cat and once again, shifted positions so that she was now facing upwards, gazing blankly at the blackness that filled the room.

The quiet drips of water in the dungeons and the strange sounds that could at times be heard outside the window had kept her awake. She had always been a light sleeper, but every time sleep seemed to finally have overwhelmed her tired mind, a sudden _drip_ would just wake her right back up. It was frustrating for her to say the least.

A side of her, the part of her that had prided herself in her intellect, had been pleased with the results from the experiment, but the other side of her, which now knew the results, was simply stressed. For the issue to be _her_. If it had been a problem with the wand or her calculations, it would have been easily fixable. But since the issue was herself, she really had no idea what to do about it now.

She was sure she was performing the actions right—she even had Professor McGonagall check it for her once the lessons had ended. Still, nothing—not even a shiver in the match, had happened.

Cyrna sighed, ashamed and frustrated of her inability to perform such a simple spell.

She rolled around restlessly for a few more moments as she tried to sleep. She forced her mind to think of something else as she shoved the whole Transfiguration issue in a box in her mind and shut the lid with a snap, promising to herself that she would figure this out later.

Still, perhaps due to the strange noises in the dungeons that she had yet to become accustomed to, she could not sleep. Bored and restless, her mind wandered aimlessly, shifting and grabbing at random memories that she had tucked away neatly during the day.

 _‘Really,’_ she thought as she cast a downward gaze to the approximate area of where Prince was resting, _‘why were you bothering Professor Snape?... ugh…’_ Cyrna closed her eyes in shame and covered her face with her arm. ‘ _Remind me as to why I thought it was a good idea to name him after the one Professor in Hogwarts who is most prone to suspicion.’_

 _‘Because you thought that the cat reminded you of him,’_ said the logical part of her mind.

She thought back to her first few moments with Prince. _‘But he did remind me of him.’_ A smile crept onto her face when she thought of his, overall, arrogant along with the prickly and almost violent attitude he had to strangers—especially to Pansy when she had been making awful cooing noises before she had confidently attempted to carelessly pick him up. _‘He still reminds me of him.’_

_‘Well, You knew this would have happened eventually. It’s not like this encounter was unexpected.’_

_‘Yes… but still…’_ The black fathomless eyes had been tinged with suspicion as they had studied her. They had looked upon her coldly, seeing her as insignificant before they had turned away to direct its gaze at her cat.

Despite what she knew about Severus Snape from the books, seeing one of her favourite characters, one whose story that had dug a little place into her heart, look at her as if she was nothing— _as if she wasn’t special_ , had hurt, more than she would like to admit.

‘ _But you aren’t special,’_ her voice echoed in her mind.

 _‘I know…’_ she thought wistfully, _‘but somehow, I guess I had wished to be seen differently in front of him.’_

_‘But isn’t it better that he disregards you? Isn’t that your aim, Cyrna? To attract as little attention as possible?’_

Cyrna released a quiet sigh into the night.

His undying love and devotion to Lily Evans to the point where he had ironically dedicated the rest of his life to a child whose father had earned the sort of hatred that not even the man’s death had lessened.

Blindingly vicious consuming hatred. Blindingly loyal consuming love.

It was a wonder to Cyrna that the man could even function normally whenever he saw Harry Potter. When she had finished reading his story, she was struck with curiosity as to how a man who could hate like none other could care for another so deeply. With this in mind, she had slowly over a couple of years became engrossed in his character… a bond between a man and a woman that not even death could part…

_The complete opposite of what I am._

To have a character who had countless of times been occupying her ponderings, only to have him look at her as if he could not be bothered to spare a single thought of her. It was not fair. It was humiliating. And it had hurt.

 _‘He doesn’t owe you anything. In this world, he is not simply a thing for you to think about when you’re bored, and tuck away into your mind once you’re done. He’s human, no longer a figment of your imagination,_ ’ her rationale scolded, _’you don’t own any part of him in this world, and he certainly doesn’t owe you his thoughts.’_

…

_‘… I know, but that doesn’t make it less humiliating or painful.’_

Cyrna turned sideways and detached herself away from Prince whose claws had been poking her as he had snuggled in.

 _‘You’ll get over it soon,’_ her rationale soothed, just as it had always done for her in the past, _‘You’re just feeling a slight bit off because you’re experiencing the transition of your favourite character becoming a real human being.’_

The dripping stopped, and the grindylow which had been swimming around in the night-waters seemed to have finally gone away. Cyrna’s breath evened out as sleep pulled at her consciousness.

_‘It’s better this way. Don’t try to attract his attention. Unlike Harry Potter, he is an integral key player of the storyline that is highly, highly intelligent—he might be able to figure your secret, then where would you be?’_

_…_

_‘Drawn into the war,’_ she answered her rationale.

_…_

_‘Is forming some sort of relationship with this character worth the increased risk of your involvement?’_

_…_

_‘no.’_

_‘Why?’_

Cyrna shifted, turning away from Prince as she snuggled into her pillow. Fatigue finally winning, her breathing deepened and she fell, finally, into a restful sleep.

_‘Because there is nothing more important to me than my life.’_

 

 


	14. Potions

“And that was how father got me my owl,” Draco bragged, entertaining the group of Slytherins who huddled around him. As if on cue, a large eagle-owl with sleek feathers regally glided into the Great Hall, drawing soft dreamy sighs of appreciation from Pansy and Millicent who clung to Draco’s arms. Draco smirked, satisfied, as he gave a sharp whistle ordering the owl to drop the package in front of him.

“Oh, it’s from my mother again,” he said lazily.

He opened the package, revealing a generous variety of expensive sweets which he carelessly handed out with a superior smirk to the students around him.

Daphne rolled her eyes at the murmured thank-you’s from the Slytherins and the compliments and praises Pansy and Millicent showered on Malfoy.

“Makes you wonder what they would do if Malfoy suddenly up and left Hogwarts,” she said dryly.

Cyrna smiled amusedly at the thought when a sudden motion in the corner of her eyes caught her attention. She turned to see a figure wave tentatively at her from across the hall at the Gryffindor table.

Her eyes brightened pleasantly, and she energetically waved back. It had been a while since she had last had time to meet up with Harry, and truth be told, her mind had mostly been occupied with navigating the nuances of interacting with Slytherins and with wallowing in her inability in Transfigurations.

Harry seemed to think for a while before he exchanged a glance with Ron and pointed towards the doors of the Great Hall.

Cyrna cast a quick glance to the door before she turned back to look for Harry, who was now pocketing some food and heading towards the exit with Ron.

“Are you going?” Daphne questioned in a quiet voice as Cyrna hurried to stuff the last bits of her breakfast into her mouth.

Cyrna casually picked up her bag. “Well,” she began slowly, meeting Daphne’s gaze with a faint spark of mischievousness in her eyes, “what sort of Slytherin would I be if I passed up a chance to be… _friends_ with the boy-who-lived?”

Daphne narrowed her eyes in skepticism.

“—not a very intelligent one I’d say,” Cyrna answered her own question with a smirk as she hefted her bag onto her shoulders. “I’ll see you in Potions.”

Cyrna had just taken a couple step towards the exit when she felt something similar to an invisible rope pull lightly on her arm. She stumbled back a step and turned around to see Theodore sipping his cup of tea without a care in the world.

“I would rethink this,” Theodore drawled when he felt her eyes on him. “Fame only holds so much power.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers, “Potter’s fame… it’ll surely dissipate soon once the Wizarding World is bored with him. It’s a terribly fickle thing to risk your standing in Slytherin on.”

Cyrna was silent for a while, thinking of what was to come according to the books. Potter not being in the center of attention?

Cyrna lips twitched slightly in amusement. “You might be surprised,” she responded dryly.

Theodore shrugged indifferently.

“Well don’t say I haven’t warned you. The other Slytherins may tolerate you for your power, but Potter’s existence is a representation of not just what we lost in the first war, but also of our failure.” Theodore’s gaze turned cold, and despite his attempts to hide it, faint tones of bitterness coated his words, “We will _never_ reconcile with him.”

Cyrna studied him, not missing the change of emotion that had seeped out accidentally. She pursed her lips in silent contemplation before she arched her eyebrow.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cyrna said with a quick smirk.

Daphne and Theodore exchanged a glance as they watched Cyrna calmly walk towards the Gryffindors without a second thought. The clanks of forks and knives on the plates filled the silence that Cyrna had left in her exit.

“You still think she’ll benefit you as a friend?” Theodore leaned over and whispered to Daphne.

Daphne’s gaze lingered on Cyrna for a moment longer, catching a glimpse of Cyrna playfully ruffling Potter’s hair just before the tall oaken doors of the Great Hall swung shut.

“I don’t think she’s serious about pursuing any sort of friendship with Potter,” Daphne answered with a small smile, “Cyrna’s just playing a game.”

Theodore’s eyebrow rose in surprise at her response though he made no effort to comment any further.

 

*****

 

If Harry thought that the whispers and stares which had followed him before had been bad, he realized that it was a lot worse today. His morning had started off with the usual uncomfortable amount of stares, but all in all, he had woken up excited for class. Potions was something that sounded similar to muggle science and cooking—two things that he at least had a bit of knowledge on when compared to the other classes in Hogwarts.

Then, when he had gone down for breakfast, he had noticed that his first friend was, for once, not frantically scribbling away on a notebook or talking to the brunette girl that he had met in the bookshop. Perhaps, he would finally be able to meet with her today.

With that thought in mind, he had waved to her, once he was sure he had caught her attention, and then, he had practically dragged Ron over to the exit.

“I wasn’t finished my breakfast,” Ron groaned in dejection as he gazed longingly at the Great Hall.

Harry gave a small smile at the statement.

“I wonder how Cyrna has been for the last four days,” he said thoughtfully. Harry knew that his week had been crazy.

Ron shrugged. “Honestly mate, I’ve got no clue. But she should be—”

“Well enough,” said a familiar voice with a teasing lilt, “what about you two? How were your weeks?”

And with that, Harry felt his hair being ruffled affectionately.

Harry startled at this action, having never experienced it before. He couldn’t help the smile that formed as he turned around to see his friend; his ears turning a touch of red when he realized that he hadn’t heard her arriving until she had spoken.

“Hello, Cyrna” he replied shyly.

“Hullo,” Ron chimed in. He took in her green-accented robes. “How’s it been in Slytherin?” he asked cautiously.

“It’s been interesting,” she replied lightly. “Definitely not as bad as I expected it to be, though I do see why you would think that Malfoy is a bit of a prick.”

Ron snorted in amusement. His expression becoming more open at her words. “He’s the worst,” Ron agreed with a smile, “and if Malfoy ever gets too much, just let us know.”

Cyrna quirked an eyebrow slightly at that statement. “If I were to do that, I would rarely be able to leave your company.”

Ron and Harry shared a glance and snickered quietly.

 

*****

 

They had been talking about all sorts of things—from Harry complaining about the difficulties of using a quill and parchment to Ron complaining about how Quidditch wouldn’t start until next week—when Harry noticed the strange stares and the frantic whisperings coming from the students they had passed by in the corridor. Some even stopped walking to stand and look at them.

All of this made Harry very uncomfortable.

“Hey,” he whispered sharply, effectively cutting off Cyrna from her complaints about the poor teaching of the DADA professor and the terrible scheduling for the astronomy lessons, “is it just me or are the other students staring more than normal?”

They walked a couple more paces, winding into a darkly lit stairwell, when Ron took a look around.

“They might be staring more than normal?” said Ron.

Cyrna smirked, “they’re probably worried that I’ll kidnap their boy-who-lived and hide him in the dark, dark dungeons when no one is watching.”

Harry laughed nervously while Ron just stared at her with wide eyes.

“I know you’ve complained a lot, but how are you enjoying Hogwarts so far, Harry?” Cyrna asked, switching the topic, as she walked down the winding staircase. The portraits hanging on the stone walls seemed to stare at them as they passed, some even breaking into fierce whispers.

Harry shrugged. “I like being in Hogwarts.”

“Any classes you’re enjoying?” she prompted.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts, maybe? I mean, the professor’s kind of strange, but the subject itself seems fun.” He looked curiously at Cyrna. “Which one do you like?”

“I would say Transfigurations, but I can’t seem to transfigure the match,” Cyrna laughed.

Ron gulped audibly as he took in the darkening surroundings and the quiet drips that he had not noticed before. “Mate,” he muttered urgently to Harry, “we’re in the dungeons.”

Harry took a quick look around. They had been mindlessly following Cyrna as she had chattered on, so he really had no idea where they were.

“It looks like it,” he replied, not knowing what Ron was hinting at.

“She said that she was going to kidnap you and hide you in the dungeons,” he whispered, “remember?”

Harry gazed at Ron, perplexed. “She was joking, Ron,” he said though he couldn’t help the nervous edge that crept into his voice. The dungeons _were_ scary. “She’s our friend, and—”

“—and a Slytherin now,” Ron finished with a hushed voice, looking ready to bolt.

Harry frowned. “You didn’t seem to think she was all that bad a while ago.”

“That was before I noticed that we were in the dungeons.”

They continued to walk onwards. Harry tried to focus on what Cyrna was saying, attempting to ignore the prickling fear, planted in his mind from Ron’s word, which had grown when Cyrna took a turn into an even darker corridor with even fewer students around.

Harry laughed nervously. He turned around to look at Ron who seemed to have taken an unhealthy white pallor.

“She was joking, right?” Harry whispered, more to confirm his own belief than to set an inquiry.

“I-I hope so,” Ron stammered quietly in reply.

“You don’t have to follow us…” Harry trailed off. He didn’t want to leave Cyrna, yet, he also had half a mind to run back up and out of the dungeons.

Ron looked startled at his comment.

“There’s no way I’d leave you alone with a Slytherin in the dungeons,” Ron replied shakily, his wand wrapped in a deathly white grip.

Harry blinked, surprised by the underlying conviction he heard in his friend’s voice.

“Well,” Harry began to whisper back, “we could—"

“—you know, Harry, Ron,” an amused voice interrupted, “that you should probably work on your volume when you whisper?”

Harry and Ron spun towards Cyrna who was watching them with a smile that lit her eyes up with genuine mirth.

They hadn’t noticed that she had stopped walking, nor that she was watching them a few paces away as she leaned against the rugged stone wall just beside a wooden door.

“Perhaps it would do you well to be more aware of your surroundings if you were actually kidnapped?” Cyrna continued, eyes twinkling.

Harry smiled sheepishly in response while Ron turned around looking gobsmacked.

“Y-you heard what we said?” he stammered guiltily, the tips of his ears flushing bright red.

Cyrna chuckled, “every single word.”

She watched him blanch. His face turning even paler though his grip on his wand loosened.

Harry fidgeted nervously.

“I was just joking,” she said lightly, deciding to stop their torment.

“But we’re in the dungeons?” Ron asked, confused.

Cyrna stared at him for a couple more seconds. Each second seemed to last for ages until her mind fully caught up with his question. She felt another grin tug at her lips.

 “Do you really not know why we’re in the dungeons?” Cyrna asked.

The boys’ eyebrows scrunched up in confusion before they shook their heads in unison a few seconds later.

Her grin widened despite her attempts to remain indifferent.

“Well,” Cyrna said, looking towards the arched door beside her, “please tell me you didn’t forget that you had a double-period Potions with my house this morning?”

The expression on the boys’ face told her that was exactly what had happened.

They stared at her for a moment before they all broke into quiet snickers.

“At least I didn’t know we had potions in the dungeons,” Harry said, suppressing another bout of snickers, “I genuinely had no idea why I was down here.”

“Well, I…” Ron paused. “I guess the thought that we had class in the dungeons today just slipped my mind,” he grinned sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Aren’t you glad I decided to meet up with the two of you after breakfast today?” Cyrna teased.

“Yeah, I would have been lost on my way down here,” said Harry.

Harry and Ron shared another glance, coming to some sort of agreement.

“Say,” Harry said hesitantly, “why don’t we meet up some time every day?”

Cyrna cocked her head and glanced at Ron who fidgeted under her scrutiny but gazed steadily back at her. ‘ _That’s surprising. I thought he’d be much more resistant to the idea.’_

“I would love to,” Cyrna said with a slight smile on her lips as she leaned against the cold stone walls of the dungeons, “but our schedules are pretty different. We don’t share any classes except for Flying and Potions, and unless you want to meet in the library and study with me once my lessons end—”

Harry and Ron shivered.

“—I don’t see how we could meet that often.”

“Well,” Harry began with a bit of reluctance, “I guess we could meet in the library and study together—”

“—or,” Ron interjected hurriedly, “we could just meet up on days when you’re not busy studying? Yeah?” he asked hopefully.

Cyrna was just about to answer when she heard the sound of students loudly chattering and laughing down the hallway.  

 _Definitely not Slytherins_. They just wouldn’t dare to be so loud in front of their Head of House’s classroom, knowing that he hated any sort of noise.

“Oh, and there’s the rest of our house!” Ron exclaimed when he saw the familiar red on black robes circle the corner.

Cyrna watched as Ron perked up and hollered a greeting at his house members.

“Hey, where _were_ you guys? We’ve been looking for you ever since you decided to leave breakfast early,” said a familiar sniffy voice.

Ron met Harry’s gaze and rolled his eyes. “We met up with a friend and headed to class early.”

“A friend? But all the other Gryffindors came down with me just now,” Hermione said, puzzled.

Cyrna sighed and prayed that her house members would appear soon before she stepped out from behind Harry and into the brighter area of the corridor.

“Hello, Hermione. Neville,” she greeted, ignoring the exclamations of surprise from the other Gryffindors when they noticed the colour of her robes.

“Oh, hey Cyrna,” Hermione returned, effortlessly recalling the name among the dozens that she had memorized on the Hogwarts Express.

“Hello,” said a soft voice shyly from the back of the group.

Strange glances where passed between the group of Gryffindors that had just came down. A tall boy with sandy-coloured hair frowned, displeased or confused, Cyrna really couldn’t tell.

“Ron, Harry, what in the bloody hell are you guys doing here in the dungeons with a snake?” he hollered.

Ron’s expression fell as he shuffled his feet awkwardly.

Harry frowned, confused at the aggression displayed towards his friend from his house members. He opened his mouth to reply when—

“Because unfortunately for us,” sneered a voice, “we’re stuck in the same class as you Gryffindors for the next two hours.”

Ron bristled at hearing the voice. “Malfoy,” he spat out in disgust.

From the other end of the corridor, Malfoy led the group of Slytherins to the entrance of the Potions classroom, stopping just behind Cyrna.

Tension built in the air as both sides remained silent, glaring at each other.

“And this is why I told you it was a bad idea to meet with Potter,” muttered Theodore quietly from behind her.

Cyrna shifted uncomfortably but held her place beside Harry and Ron.

Malfoy curled his lip unpleasantly and was about to bite back a response to Ron when the door the Potions classroom swung open with a loud bang, startling most if not all of the first-year students waiting outside the door.

Everyone waited apprehensively for something to emerge from the dimly lit classroom, but nothing besides the soft, quiet sounds of what Cyrna recognized to be bubbling cauldrons could be heard. Casting a silent ‘ _tempus,_ ’ she noted that there were still five minutes before class.

‘ _I guess Snape wants us to get seated first before he comes in,_ ’ Cyrna thought nervously as she headed into the classroom.

Hearing a set of footsteps shuffling behind and soon beside her, she glanced at Hermione whose eyes seemed to convey the same thought and nervousness that she felt. She offered a polite smile of greeting which Hermione returned with a genuine smile.

“Are those eyes?” Hermione whispered once they had shuffled near the front of the dark classroom. Wide-eyed, Hermione stared at the eyeballs suspended in fluid inside a jar that was set strategically so that the flickering candlelight would always shine on it.  Seeming to notice that it had spectators, the eyes twitched in the fluid and spun around to stare straight at her.

Hermione yelped in surprise, and scuttled back, bumping into the edge of a desk.

“Well this place was certainly set up to intimidate,” muttered Cyrna dryly. She glanced at Hermione who was clutching her side lightly and gaping at the suspended eyeball. “Are you okay?”

Hermione cleared her throat and nervously patted down her robes. She took a seat in front of the desk she bumped into so that she was now sitting in the front row of the class.

“I’m fine,” she said with an awkward smile, “thanks for asking.”

The rest of their houses soon filtered in slowly through the door, seeing as nothing too terrible had happened to their housemates. The Slytherins automatically grouped together on the left side with the Gryffindors favouring the right.

Harry gave her a quick wave before settling in the middle row with Ron.

Cyrna nodded politely to Hermione before she glanced to the back of the classroom with full intentions of choosing a seat that wouldn’t draw too much attention to herself. She spotted Daphne who shot her an apologetic glance from beside Theodore. The back seats in the Slytherin side of the classroom had been quickly filled by some other Slytherins that she had yet to meet, and soon, she noticed that practically all the rows in the Potions classroom had been filled except for some seats in the front row.

Having heard the reputation of the Potions Master, it was unsurprising that few would want to sit in the front.

Contemplating her options, she decided that she would much rather face the backlash of sitting with a Gryffindor than having to endure the torture of sitting beside Pansy who, along with Millicent, was currently fawning over Malfoy who sat between them.

Heaving a silent sigh, she circled Hermione’s desk and plopped herself down on the seat to the left of the Gryffindor.

Cyrna quickly took out her parchment, quill, and inkbottle. Once everything was laid out in an orderly fashion, she took out her textbook and quickly started scanning through the first chapter for the fifth time, making sure she remembered everything.

She was reading a particularly interesting excerpt of the reaction that would occur if you added the porcupine quills before the solution had enough time to cool down when she felt the prickling sensation of eyes on her.

She glanced from her book with a frown, and she looked around, meeting Hermione’s curious gaze.

Cyrna arched a brow in question.

“Why are you sitting here?” asked Hermione. She flushed slightly pink when she realized how she sounded. “Not that I don’t want you to,” she stammered slightly, “but there’s still a seat on the Slytherin side of the room, and according to _Hogwarts: A History_ , Slytherins and Gryffindors usually don’t spend any time together more than necessary.”

Cyrna smiled slightly. “You can ask me that question again once you’ve experienced the horror of sitting around girls who won’t stop squealing over everything Malfoy does.”

Hermione glanced curiously at the boy in mention. She gave a nod of understanding before she rummaged through her own bag to pull out her supplies.

Cyrna jotted down the date on the top right corner of the parchment and waited patiently for the minute hand of the clock to reach the 12.

 

*****

 

The second hand was now a second from reaching a full cycle, and just as it hit 9:00, the heavy doors of the Potions classroom flew open, and a shadowed figure with black robes billowing and snapping around his heels stormed into the classroom.

The chattering in the class fell into dead silence.

With a wave of his wand, the doors slammed shut once again and the candles around the classroom flared into full brightness.

He strode without hesitance to the front of the class and glared at the class before he flicked open a scroll and began taking the register.

Cyrna took a moment to study the Professor who would be teaching her. It felt surreal to be sitting in this class—the deep baritone voice spoken just above a whisper, the way he managed to drip distain on each name he read, yet still reading them indifferently…

To think that this man would be dead in a few years…

Cyrna shifted her gaze away.

She rubbed the invisible minuscule vial which had hung around her neck ever since Nicolas had charmed it into a Portkey that would bring her back to the Flamel mansion. The blood-red liquid throbbed comfortingly as if it had a pulse of its own.

“… Harry Potter—our new _celebrity_.”

Cyrna heard snickering from her left.

Snape fixed a cold glare at Potter before he continued down the list.

“Cyrna Raine,” he droned without inflection.

Cyrna let go of the vial and quickly raised her hand, drawing the Professor’s gaze towards her. She met the black empty eyes again, but this time, the eyes shifted to her right before returning to hers with an arch of a brow.

 _Does he not want me to associate with Gryffindors?_ Cyrna wondered as she glanced at Hermione.

 

*****

 

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. As there is little wand-waving or silly incantations in this class, I do not expect many of you to understand the magic of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes.”

Cyrna held her breath as Snape glanced around steadily with an unimpressed expression at the class who, like her, remained in tense silence.

“However,” he continued softly, “for those select few that possess the… predisposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses… I can even teach you how to bottle fame,” he breathed out in a hushed tone, “brew glory, and even put a stopper in death—”

The class held its breath, enraptured.

“—if only you weren’t the usual dunderheads that I have to teach.”

With that, the spell seemed to break and the class blinked as if out of a daze. Silence followed the speech and Cyrna watched as Hermione strained on the edge of her seat, looking desperate to start proving herself.

“Potter!” Snape barked suddenly, “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Cyrna glanced at Potter who stared back at her in a panic. She gave an apologetic shrug, indicating that she didn’t know the answer before she turned back to stare at Snape.

It was happening exactly like how it happened in the books. Hermione’s hand had flown up immediately, while Potter could only respond with “I don’t know.”

Cyrna watched as Snape sneered and made petty comments on Potter’s lack of studying. She watched as irritation continued to build up in Harry’s eyes, and she sighed as the Gryffindor part of him flared up.

“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly, trying to control his temper, “but I think Hermione does. Why don’t you try her?”

A few people in the class laughed.

Whatever she thought she knew about the bitterness that had existed in Severus Snape was erased to be replaced with something much more intense when she saw the cold anger that seeped into his eyes and the absolute disgust he had when he stared down at his student.

Her pulse thundered. If she hadn’t known which side he had fought in from the books, she would never have believed that he was on the side of the Light. He seemed as if he would be much happier seeing Potter dead.

Snape’s eyes shot towards Hermione, pinning her down with a glare.

Hermione’s hand faltered uncertainly in the air.

“Put your hand down,” he snapped at her.

Her hand shot down immediately.

“For your information, Potter,” he spat, glaring at Potter who glared straight back, “asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite… Well?” he hissed, turning his dark glare to the rest of the class, “Why aren’t you all copying it down?”

Everyone frantically rummaged for their quills and parchment.

“And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter,” Snape said in a deathly soft voice. With that, he turned sharply around and swept to the front of the room and began the lecture. “Page 4, the cure of boils…”

 

*****

 

The rest of the lecture continued on uneventfully. The class was silent the entire time, with only the sound of Snape’s voice and the scratching sound of chalk on the chalkboard.

Once the first hour-and-a-half was up, Snape paired them up with the person they were sitting beside to make a simple potion to cure boils. Cyrna glanced at Hermione who seemed to be dying to take the lead.

_Well why not?_

“I’m not too comfortable with the practical part of Potions,” Cyrna laughed sheepishly, fiddling with her quill, “and I’m certain you know what you’re doing.”

Hermione blinked at her in surprise, a smile gradually working her way onto her face at the compliment. “Oh. Well in that case, how about you do the ingredient preparations, and I’ll handle the cauldron?” she asked eagerly.

Cyrna’ smile brightened, “sounds like a plan!”

Cyrna went along with the other students to grab their ingredients from the shelves.

 _Really_ , _after spending all that time under Nicolas in potions, I can’t help but see potions as an art. Each stir of the cauldron, a stroke of the paint brush. And with each step of the potion, with each ingredient added, the painting starts to take form._

Cyrna arrived at the table with the ingredients and set to preparing them. She crushed the six snake fangs and separated it into four equal measures, then she made four light slices on the surface of each slug. There wasn’t much to do, after all, it _was_ a simple, if not the simplest, potion to make. As long as you followed the instructions, you were bound to make a good cure for boils. But for it to be truly perfect… Cyrna thought back to her time at the Flamel Estate as she watched Hermione drop an entire measure of crushed snake fangs into the cauldron.

Immediately, the solution in the cauldron went from colourless to a murky light green. After three more measures were dropped, the solution was now a beautiful emerald colour.

_The final touch of the potion; your final work when you see the beauty of the simmering liquid bubbling quietly… the satisfaction and pride that comes to you when you stand back and behold your finished painting is unparallel to almost all other sorts of magic._

It was the ideal colour for the potions at this stage, however—Cyrna peered over the cauldron—because Hermione had added each of the entire measure in one go, the solution was a slight bit too viscous for perfection; the consistency though not noticeable to most, was lacking in some areas. Some areas of the potion were too dense, others having an almost transparent quality to it.

_If I were to brew the potion, there’s no way I’d be able to sabotage my own work to make it look average. It’s like grabbing a completely repulsive colour and slathering it all over a beautiful painting._

_It’s unthinkable._

Hermione was now giving the last stir to the cauldron.

 _Too harsh; too abrupt_ , Cyrna thought listlessly as she waved her wand to help decant the potion.  

“Good work, Hermione!” she praised.

The potion _was_ good. Good enough for it to receive Outstanding for this course anyways, judging from the way the Professor had not said anything when he had periodically checked on their progress.

“Thanks,” Hermione murmured with a smile.

Cyrna looked around for the Professor and found him by Malfoy’s station, complimenting Malfoy’s stewed slug when a sudden hiss and green fumes began to fill the air in the classroom.

 _Ah. Right. Neville’s cauldron_.

Cyrna, who had been standing in the decanting process quickly hopped onto her stool and sat down with her feet tucked carefully away from the ground. Hermione gave her a curious stare before she sat down on her stool too, her legs dangling from the ground.

Cyrna gave an innocent shrug just as a loud bang was heard from the right side of the classroom. She glanced at Neville who was now drenched in his potion and was moaning in pain as boils sprang up on his skin. The potion from their cauldron soon slowly seeped across the dungeon’s floor, burning anything it came in contact with.

The nearest students to Neville and Seamus yelped in surprise when the potions began melting their shoe, and everyone quickly scrambled onto their chair.

“Idiot boy,” Snape snarled as he stalked over to the destroyed cauldron, “I suppose you added the porcupine quills to the cauldron before taking it off the fire?”

Cyrna watched in surprise when the potions seemed to simply slide off the Professor’s shoes and robes.

_Of course. Protective charms._

Neville whimpered in pain as red, painful, boils began popping up and spreading all over his body.

With a quick flick of his wand, Snape cleared the mess and banished the destroyed fragments of the cauldron.

“Hey.”

Cyrna felt a tug after the whisper, and she turned to Hermione.

“Did you know that was going to happen?”

Cyrna stared at Hermione for a moment. Hermione was much too intelligent to believe it if she said, ‘no.’

“Yep,” Cyrna said in a casual manner, “I did.”

“How did you know?” she whispered, curiousity brightening her eyes.

“Did you read that little excerpt from the textbook about what would happen if you accidentally added in the quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”

“I did, but it didn’t say that the cauldron would explode. All it described was the hissing sound and the green fumes that would be released.”

Cyrna shrugged carefully, “I just thought that if the hissing was caused by the release of gas from an area of high pressure to low pressure, the gas, pushing outwards, might also cause the cauldron to explode?”

Hermione blinked a couple of times. “That’s muggle science!” she exclaimed excitedly.

Cyrna quirked a smile. “I’m a half-blood, so I do know a bit about the other part of the world.”

Hermione smiled, and together, they watched as the Professor dismissed Seamus to help Neville up to the hospital wing. Then, they watched Snape tell Harry off for not helping Neville with his potion.

“Your Head of House…” Hermione trailed off, not wanting to remark to harshly on someone with authority.

“He’s rather unfair to Gryffindors,” Cyrna conceded.

Hermione frowned thoughtfully.

“Do you think that maybe he didn’t criticize our potion when he walked by was because I was working with you, a Slytherin?”

“Possibly,” Cyrna said slowly, not having thought of this reason, “I just thought he hadn’t complained because there was nothing to complain about.”

Cyrna stole a glance at Malfoy’s and Daphne’s potions. They weren’t bad; however, Daphne had stewed her slug a tad bit overtime, and Malfoy seemed to have dumped each measure of grounded fangs in the cauldron too quickly.

Hermione had followed the recipe perfectly.

 

*****

 

Snape called for order, and soon enough, every student was back to working quietly.

Having finished their potion, Cyrna and Hermione grabbed their potion and walked up to the front to show Snape their completed work.

The professor was scribbling something down on a piece of parchment when they walked up. Snape glanced at them irritably when they showed no signs of leaving.

“Yes?” he drawled.

“Sir, we finished our potions,” Cyrna replied when Hermione remained quiet.

The professor concealed his surprise at this. _Hadn’t it only been thirty-five minutes?_ _Thirty minutes was the time needed to make the potion following the recipe in the book perfectly; a time that didn’t include ingredient identification and preparation._

Indifferently, he impatiently tapped his desk with his quill twice.

_Oh._

Cyrna placed her potions on the desk and nudged Hermione forward to do the same.

Picking up one of the bottled potions, Snape gave it a quick glance. It was brewed as perfectly as one could expect from following the recipe. In fact, he reluctantly decided that it was one of the best he had seen from a first-year. He glanced around the classroom, and none of the other students seemed to be close to finishing their potions.

“Who brewed this?” he asked coldly.

Cyrna shared a glance with Hermione.

“Hermione, sir,” said Cyrna the same time Hermione said, “the both of us.”

Professor Snape arched a brow, unimpressed.

Hermione cleared her throat nervously, “Sir, I wouldn’t have been able to brew it as efficiently if Cyrna had not prepared all the ingredients just as I needed them.”

Professor Snape switched his gaze from the Gryffindor and settled it back on his Slytherin thoughtfully. He hadn’t had any time to note their individual work when he had been passing through the class. Seeing that nothing seemed to be on the verge of exploding in their cauldron, he had simply passed them by without nitpicking on anything seeing that one of his Slytherins was in the group.

He looked at his Slytherin and looked back at the potion.

“Outstanding,” he said evenly as he marked an “O” beside Ms. Raine’s name.

He glanced at the Gryffindor who had partnered up with his Slytherin and sighed.

“For both of you,” he gritted out reluctantly, knowing that he had no valid reason to mark them differently. With another sigh, he marked an “O” next to the Gryffindor as well.

Hermione grinned proudly at Cyrna who returned her smile politely.

“You’re dismissed,” drawled the Professor, returning to his work.

Cyrna and Hermione quickly gathered their supplies and cleaned their workstation. With a wave to Daphne and a whispered “good luck” to a desolate looking Harry Potter, she and Hermione exited the Potions classroom with forty-five minutes left to spare.

 

*****

 

“Where are you going to go now?” Hermione asked curiously as they walked up the stairwell and through several corridors.

“The library, probably,” Cyrna admitted.

“Oh!” Hermione’s eyes brightened, “Do you want to study together?” she asked somewhat shyly, face flushing a pale pink.

“Sure,” Cyrna agreed with an easy smile.

Once at the library, Cyrna quietly took out her charms essay to work on, and Hermione seemed to be studying for the upcoming Transfigurations quiz.

Madame Pince had given them a stern glare when they had entered before she continued patrolling the other aisles of the library.

“Say,” Hermione suddenly said after thirty-minutes of silent studying, “If you knew that the cauldron was going to explode, why didn't you let everybody else know?”

The question was asked innocently out of simple curiousity.

Perhaps that was what threw Cyrna off. The trust in the eyes that gazed steadily at her; a trust that she had done what she did because she believed her actions would help the class.

Cyrna blinked slowly in confusion as she ran the question through her mind. Her mouth fell open as she tried to form a response. To be honest, it hadn’t been out of ill-will nor had it been caused by her desire to protect her secret.

It had simply been because she just hadn’t thought of the other people in the class. At that moment, she had only been thinking about how to protect herself.

“I don’t know,” Cyrna said slowly, “I guess I just wasn’t sure if the explosion was going to happen—didn’t trust my own conclusion completely, so I didn’t want to cry wolf.”

Hermione nodded understandingly before going back to work.


	15. Complications

**Chapter 15: Complications**

After having sat through one of the most monotonous lectures on old Wizarding inventions in History class and the most mind-numbing lecture on the colours and relative size of planets in Astronomy, Cyrna had begun seriously contemplating the wisdom of attending these classes. Sure, astronomy and history were both interesting subjects, but one suffered from horrible teaching while the other was just too easy.

Cyrna idly flipped through her Astronomy syllabus as she munched on a sandwich in the Great Hall:

_‘An introduction to Astronomy’_ , ‘ _Getting to know the Planets’, ‘What is the Sun?’, ‘The Movement of the Planets’, ‘Ursa Major’, …_

 

The first few topics which spanned the entire first semester were all things she had learned before high school. Her memory on this subject _was_ a bit rough around the edges, but she was certain that she still remembered the most basic facts.

Cyrna looked at the notes she had taken in class, seeing that Daphne and the Hufflepuff girl she was sitting beside had been diligently copying everything from the chalkboard.

  * Mercury is the smallest planet.
  * It exists in space.
  * Closest planet to the su—



Cyrna heaved a sigh and closed her notebook. There had been some interesting parts in the lecture when Professor Sinistra had gone off on a tangent about the prophetic properties of the planets, but those parts, Cyrna soon discovered, were not testable for the first-year course.

“Not enjoying Astronomy?” Daphne asked curiously when she saw the exasperated expression on her friend’s face as she shoved the Astronomy textbook and notebook back in her bag.

“It’s all right, I guess.” Cyrna grimaced. “It just seems like really impractical knowledge. I mean, if I had to fill my head with information, I’d rather fill it with something for useful for daily life. Even history would be more useful than what we just learnt today.”

Daphne shrugged. “I think the course is interesting,”

“How so?” Theodore asked.

There were now just twenty minutes left until their Herbology lesson, and because of this, the Great Hall was quite empty at the moment. After Malfoy had made a scene at the Gryffindor table with Neville’s Remembrall to antagonize Harry Potter, most of the Slytherins had followed him out the Hall once McGonogall had arrived on the scene.

“I like the night and stars,” Daphne replied simply, her eyes taking a faraway expression.

Suddenly her eyes sharpened, returning to present, and she glanced significantly at Theodore.

Some sort of understanding seemed to pass between them, and Cyrna watched as Theodore’s face fell for a moment before regaining his normal expression. He held Daphne’s gaze.

“I do as well,” he said quietly, sincerely.

Daphne smiled slightly.

 _Okay,_ Cyrna’s eyes darted from one to another, _there is definitely something I’m not getting_. _Daphne’s not blushing, so this isn’t something romantic…_

_I think?_

“But that aside, Cyrna, I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be attending Herbology—as I’m sure you figured out on Monday—and the flying classes,” said Daphne.

“Are you allowed to… just skip classes like that?” Cyrna questioned curiously. If that was the case, then perhaps for History and Astronomy…

“No, you really aren’t supposed to.” Daphne rummaged through her bag and pulled out a small rectangular piece of parchment. “You need a pass like this one to not attend the required classes. Your parents have to make the request for dropping the class, then you would need to have the Department of Magical Education sign it.”

_Damnit. I could have learnt more from the textbook than wasting my time and going to lecture. It’s not like Binns actually teaches; he just reads the textbook verbatim._

_Wait._

_Did she say that she was going to skip Herbology?_

“But don’t you need to have to pass first-year Herbology to advance to year two?”

“I do,” Daphne conceded, “It’s just that my credits for that course have already been taken care of.”

 

*****

 

Their Herbology lesson had been conducted outside in the beautiful autumn weather; the brightly coloured leaves lay scattered in the meadows, occasionally stirring when the chilly breeze brushed by. Despite the wind, it wasn’t too cold as the sun still hung in the blue skies, bathing everyone with warmth.

The class had been calm as it was only consisted of Slytherins. Once the hour had began, Professor Sprout had taught them how to cast incendio to deal with Spiky Bushes, then she had pulled out the few Slytherins who had gotten the hang of the spell to show them the proper method of gathering the spikes from the plant.

The Spiky Bush would shoot its spikes at anyone who came near it, so there was a sort of dance, Cyrna learnt as she watched the professor efficiently extract the purple emulsion from a spike without needing to incendio the plant, that one had to perform to obtain the spike.

A step forward just in the Bushes’ shooting range to tempt it to attack, then a step diagonally backwards to dodge the oncoming spike. Next, you’d nudge the spike that it had shot at you back with your feet until you were out of the Bushes’ range before turning around and picking it up.

Of course, if all else failed, or if the plant was feeling especially vicious, you’d cast a well-placed incendio.

Cyrna gathered her little pile of spikes she had harvested and headed to Professor Sprout to turn it in.

“Good work,” Sprout said briskly, placing a checkmark by her name. “And let’s see an incendio for that one over there,” she said, gesturing to the Spiky Bush sitting a distance away from the other Slytherins who were still harvesting the spikes.

Cyrna took her place and calmly walked forward until the plant twitched.

She felt as the air seemed to shift slightly as it usually did before the plant was about to attack, and she quickly took a step diagonally backwards just as the spike sailed past her.

“ _Incendio_ ,” she chanted with her wand pointing towards the plant which seemed to be preparing for another attack.

Instantly, the plant burst into flames, and soon, it quickly turned to ashes.

Having burnt up the intended target, the flames died out with a faint sizzle.

Cyrna looked back to see Professor Sprout watching her with a curious expression before she scribbled something down on her clipboard.

“Excellent job, Ms. Raine,” Professor Sprout said, looking back up, “that’s all I have for you today—unless you have any questions?”

Cyrna thought for a while.

“Well I have one—”

“Professor Sprout,” Draco called as he walked over with Theodore holding their spikes, “we’re finished.”

Professor Sprout gave Cyrna an apologetic smile.

“It seems that I’ll have to see you after dinner for your question. My office is five doors from the Hogwarts kitchen,” Professor Sprout said briskly before hurrying over to Draco and Theodore to instruct them to perform an incendio.

Cyrna was about to walk away when she heard Theodore mutter “ _incendio_.”

She watched as the Spiky Bush caught on fire and burnt slowly.

Malfoy’s “ _incendio_ ” yielded similar results.

 _Oh_.

 _That’s why the professor was looking at me like that_.

Their Spiky Bushes burned like miniature campfires, and they were certainly nowhere near being cinders when Professor Sprout had cast “ _aguamenti”_ to put out the fire.

Ever since the day of the Sorting, Cyrna had allowed more of her magic to run free to intimidate the Slytherins from bullying her. Still, even now… Cyrna gazed at her hands and envisioned the thin silver strands of magic which lay snugly tucked underneath the thicker strands that wrapped around her loosely… she was still restraining a good portion of her magic.

 _‘And it will stay this way until I have better control_ ,’ Cyrna thought with a shiver at how she had basically fainted from exhaustion when she had tried to release all of her magic.

 

*****

 

“It really is too bad that Daphne isn’t outside right now. The weather is amazing—not too hot, not too cold with a nice breeze and a bright sun,” murmured Cyrna as she sat cross-legged with Theodore and Draco in the Quidditch field. They had been dismissed as they had finished Herbology early.

The same emotion she had seen at the Great Hall seemed to pass by Theodore’s face again before it was quickly suppressed.

“Nothing to say, Theodore?” Draco asked with a sneer. “Or, perhaps, does she not—”

“Don’t you dare,” Theodore hissed, eyes turning cold.

Draco smirked.

“Wasn’t going to say anything. I’d never throw another Pureblood’s—especially one from the Sacred Twenty-Eight—secret out in the open.”

_Secret?_

Theodore’s glare narrowed threateningly.

“Cross my heart,” Draco vowed with a smirk, “my father taught me _that_ much common sense. So, Raine, pretend you heard nothing, alright?”

 _As if I could_.

Cyrna looked at Theodore who was now gazing at her coldly and Malfoy who was smirking victoriously.

“Sorry,” Cyrna blinked with a confused expression, “Malfoy, did you say something?”

Draco gaped at her, uncertain if she was lying or telling the truth.

“My mind was a bit preoccupied, running through the do’s and don’ts for flying—you know, we do have class in like,” Cyrna checked the time, “seven minutes? I’m afraid my attention just wasn’t present when you were speaking.”

“But I promise you that you have my full attention right now, Malfoy.”

Draco glared at her, and with a huff, got up from their spot on the Quidditch grounds and stormed over to the shack holding the school brooms.

“Well, what are you guys waiting for?” he snapped a moment later, sulking. “As you said, Raine, class _is_ about to start.”

Theodore’s look as he got up from the ground promised that he would be talking to her privately later.

Cyrna sighed and followed Malfoy to the shack.

_Oh well. I tried. Still… I do wonder what’s up with Daphne…_

She stood outside the shack with Theodore, watching as Malfoy angrily rummaged through the stacks of brooms.

“They’re all terrible, I can’t believe they’d have me fly _that_ around,” he muttered with disgust.

“Surely you can tell the better ones from the others,” Theodore said.

Draco sniffed arrogantly. “Of course I can.”

He turned around, dug through a pile, and pulled out a broom that looked much straighter than the others in the shed. He mounted it and kicked off the ground, flying steadily in a small circle before landing again.

“Told you I could tell which ones are better,” Draco said, smiling smugly as he handed Cyrna his broom before she could protest and returned into the shack to continue digging through the brooms.

In just a moment, he seemed to have found one that passed his standard, and he threw it at Theodore who accepted it without complaint.

“You’ve at least flown before, right, half-blood?” Draco asked with a sneer.

Cyrna frowned, not knowing where he was going with this. Of course she hadn’t flown before, but it wasn’t like she was going to admit that to him.

“I’ve flown before,” she said tightly.

“Good. Wouldn’t want you to embarrass Slytherin during class.”

He rummaged through the shack a bit longer before pulling at a decent looking broomstick.

“Take this one,” Draco said as he took his broom back from Cyrna.

Cyrna looked at the offered broom with a frown and a look of doubt.

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t do anything to the broom. As much as I’d like to watch you flail around in the sky, Snape gave me a lecturing that it was my responsibility as a leader—” he puffed up proudly at that “—to maintain the image of unity for Slytherin and all that.” He scowled. “Even got my father to write a letter to me about that too.”

Cyrna blinked, confused. “Why are you telling me this?”

Draco sighed in irritation. “I’m _saying_ that I’m going to be a bit more civil to you, _Cyrna_ ,” he bit out, “and you are going to do the same to me when we’re in public with the other houses and professors watching.”

He didn’t look like he was lying, nor did he look like the type of person capable of lying well. Though agreeing to civility might bring up a problem between her and Harry later, it wasn’t like she could turn down what was basically a direct order from her Head of House.

There was no way she’d be able to explain herself to Snape if Malfoy reported back to the Professor that she had refused to play along.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said evenly as she took the broom from his hand, watching Draco visibly cringe when she said his name.

“Right, and I’ve told the other Slytherins to play along,” Draco muttered unhappily as he slinked towards the grounds where Madam Hooch was waiting patiently with several broomsticks laid out on the ground.

“We found these broomsticks in the shack,” Draco said once he had drawn the attention of the yellow, hawk-like eyes of the professor. “May we use these instead?”

“Of course you may,” answered Madame Hooch crisply. She turned and looked around before casting a quick tempus to check the time.

“Where are the other Slytherins?” she asked.

“They should be heading over here at any moment now,” Theodore replied calmly. “We were dismissed first since we completed our lesson earlier.”

Madame Hooch gave them a quick rundown of what to expect for class today when they saw the rest of the Slytherins heading down the hill to join them. Some looked as if they had simply stepped out from a lecture while others, such as Crabbe and Goyle, looked as if they had been through war.

Their hands, cheeks, and clothes were smudged with dirt; some areas of their robes were torn, and Cyrna could vaguely make out a pale scar that would probably disappear in the next hour or so on their cheeks.

Draco’s lips tightened, clearly displeased by the state his so-called bodyguards had gotten into, but seeing as the teacher was present, Draco said nothing, and soon, all the Slytherins were lined up with their chosen brooms.

It was just moments later when the bell signifying the start of the next period rang.

Soon, the herd of Gryffindors appeared. They were clearly extremely excited for this class if the chattering and the smiles on their faces meant anything. They quickly lined up beside a broom when they saw that Madam Hooch and the other Slytherins were already present.

As soon as all the students arrived, Hooch started the class.

“Stick your hand to your right and shout ‘UP’” the teacher instructed.

Cyrna glanced at her broom. She swallowed nervously.

“Up,” she muttered quietly.

The broom twitched in response.

She looked at Harry who was holding the broom with a look of pride as it had responded on his first try.

“Intent is the key,” whispered Theodore quietly beside her holding his broom.

_Intent…_

She looked at the sky; the wide expanse of blue that stretched as far as the eye could see.

_How many times when I was young did I dream of flying?_

_…_

_Too much to count._

It wasn’t so much that she had dreamt of flying; rather, she had envied the freedom the birds appeared to experience when they glided without a care in the world as they soared in the skies. The turmoil of the world below never seemed to reach them.

Cyrna glanced back down to the ground below.

_It was so far down._

_And there’s no safety net_.

“Aren’t you scared about what would happen if you fell?” she asked Theodore.

Theodore gave her a strange look.

“I mean, it really only takes one fall from the skies to shatter your spine and kill you.”

Theodore frowned.

“Those brooms have been illegal for a while now. The current ones, especially the ones at the school, have safety spells that keep you on the broom until you are a safe distance from the ground.”

“But couldn’t you—” Cyrna thought of Neville and Harry “—break your wrist or a joint even if you were to fall from that distance?”

“And that’s what Madam Pomfrey is here for.” He frowned again. “You’re speaking like a muggle again, Cyrna. The law that all brooms must have safety spells on before they can be sold has been in place before we were born.”

“Oh, is that so?” she said weakly before glancing at the skies again.

She watched an eagle soar; the winds rippled across its feathers, glimmering as it passed through the rays of the afternoon sun.

_Maybe in this world…_

Cyrna looked at the broom beside her.

“UP,” she commanded, allowing her desire to fly fill her words.

 

*****

 

Cyrna winced when she heard the sickening thud and the cracking sound that Neville had made when he landed face-first on the ground.

Once Madam Hooch had disappeared inside the castle with Neville hobbling behind her, crying, Malfoy had burst into laughter. The rest of the Slytherins soon joined and taunts were thrown between the two houses.

Cyrna hung at the back of the group, watching as the scene played out in front of her with some satisfaction. As written, Harry had mounted his broom and had flown off after Malfoy to take back the Remembrall. Without Goyle or Crabbe in the air with him, Malfoy soon gave up the chase and threw the Remembrall away before returning to the ground.

“I’d like to see him try to save it from shattering,” Malfoy sneered once he had landed.

“That was a gift from his grandmother!” Ron exclaimed furiously.

“From _that_ hag?” Pansy snickered. “We’d be doing him a favour of getting rid of it.”

Ron’s face turned an unpleasant shade of red as he glared at Pansy and Draco.

He was about to bite back a response when a sudden gasp from Hermione drew his attention.

Cyrna watched as anger vanished from Ron’s face to be replaced with awe when he saw Harry streak down from the skies, hand reaching out to grasp the falling Remembrall as the wind whistled around him.

Closer and closer Harry neared the ground, and the louder and louder the screams became.

“I can’t watch,” Hermione muttered, looking away.

Theodore rolled his eyes with contempt as he looked at Harry.

“He’s an idiot,” he muttered to Cyrna who was also watching the fall.

“Catch it Harry, catch it!” Ron shouted, eyes lighting up with excitement as Harry’s fingers brushed the surface of the Remembrall.

Cyrna smiled faintly.

Harry caught it and tumbled onto the ground safely. He held the Remembrall up victoriously, and the Gryffindors surrounded him at once, cheering.

“I guess that’s why we weren’t placed in Gryffindor, Theodore. I’d never have the courage or recklessness to do that.”

Soon after he had landed, Professor McGonagall had appeared on the scene, speechless with anger and shock before she left, dragging a despondent-looking Harry Potter behind her.

“Suits him right,” Malfoy sneered as the other Slytherins laughed gleefully at the turn of events.

Theodore snickered quietly. “It’d be great fun for me if they expelled Potter. Think of the headlines the Daily Prophet would have.”

He continued on for a while, snickering, when he realized that his companion was silent.

He stopped and turned to see Cyrna gazing at him curiously. The blue eyes of hers seemed to glow slightly as they studied him with its piercing gaze. He felt himself gulp nervously though he made sure that his expression remained indifferent.

He didn’t think she was angry. Her magic didn’t seem agitated, instead it swirled around her calmly, peacefully.

“Well,” he laughed awkwardly, not wanting to upset her if her show on the day of the Sorting was anything to go by, “we both know that Hogwarts would never expel the boy-who-lived.”

The silence between them felt tense. Uncomfortable, Theodore made to walk off.

“You’re different from the other Slytherins,” said a soft voice, stopping his steps. Though the voice had not spoken loudly, it seemed to echo quietly within his mind, the wind carrying the whisper to his ears.

Theodore turned around.

Cyrna met his gaze calmly. “You’re not like the others who blindly hate the boy-who lived.”

He suppressed the urge to shiver.

“You hate him for a much more personal reason… don’t you?”

Theodore stared at Cyrna uncomprehendingly. _How does she know?_ He ran through his conversations with her but could find nothing that would incriminate him.

He felt his mask finally gave away as Cyrna’s eyes bore into his. She already knew the answer.

His lips twisted into a bitter sneer as he answered, “yes.”

Cyrna remained silent. Her probing gaze remained on him even as he turned around to head towards the rest of the Slytherins who were mounting their brooms under the supervision of Madam Hooch who had returned from the Hospital wing.

He got on his broom and turned to look at Cyrna.

“But just so you know,” he said after a tense pause, “I’m not like Malfoy. I won’t do anything to your ‘friend.’ I know better than to fight losing battles.”

 

*****

 

Cyrna relaxed as she lazily drifted across the grey, cloudy afternoon sky on the school’s broom. Despite her initial wariness on flying, once she had gotten on the broom and had felt the wind wrap around her as if _this_ was where she belonged, she had been waiting for her chance on Friday afternoon to fly again after the flying lesson on Thursday had ended.

Safe and peaceful. She couldn’t quite explain why but that was how she felt when she was in the skies.

Her gaze idly scanned the grounds and the forest below as the autumn breeze gently brushed her cheeks, playfully tangling her hair.

Potions had ended a quite a few hours ago with nothing too particular happening. Daphne had attended, nothing had blown up, and—of course—Snape had deducted marks from Harry for pretty much everything, blaming him for the tiniest mistakes that others had caused during class.

It wasn’t like she expected Snape to behave differently, but the sheer amount of reasons he somehow found to blame Harry was astonishing to say the very least.

Cyrna followed the edge of the Forbidden forest from the skies as she languidly drifted back towards the castle. It was almost dinner.

She passed by the fields that she had had her Herbology class in.

Yesterday, she had gone to Professor Sprout after dinner. Her appointment with the Hufflepuff Head really was a blessing as she had been trying to give Theodore some space after the flying lesson. The Herbology professor’s face had brightened with pleasure when she explained that she was curious about the uses of the emulsion from the spikes they had gathered from the Spiky Bushes.

At that, the Professor had launched into an in-depth explanation about the proper extraction method and its uses in the wound-cleaning potion. After, she had excitedly gone to the back of her room and had pulled out two spikes; one of which she demonstrated the extraction, and the other which she allowed Cyrna to try.

She had of course known the uses of the spikes before she had gone to the office, having studied it during summer with Nicolas. However, because the Flamels never really had a use for wound-cleaning potions, there hadn’t been any Spiky Bushes around the estate.

Cyrna looked at the small cuts she had gotten on her hand from her knife when it had slipped off the surface of the spike and had nicked her hand instead.

After her first three cuts, the Herbology professor had healed her and had taken the spike back, telling her that while she was happy with her enthusiasm, the extraction was perhaps something that was too difficult for a first-year to accomplish. Cyrna didn’t argue otherwise, and she thanked the professor for her time before leaving the office, promising to herself that once she had her hands on a spike and some healing potions, she would try again by herself.

She checked the time.

30 minutes before dinner.

Cyrna quickened her speed as she urged her broom to fly faster towards the castle. The wind whistled around her, and everything was peaceful when she suddenly heard a weak nicker, like that of a horse, echo through her mind.

Immediately, she pulled to an abrupt halt. She quickly glanced around, but all she could see was the wide expanse of the sky as the orange hues of the evening began to settle in.

_Strange. I’m sure I heard something. But how could I? I’m up here in the clouds._

With a shake of her head, she started forward again.

 _“Help me,_ ” cried a voice weakly in her mind.

Cyrna glanced around in the sky, but it was empty.

 _I’m definitely not hearing things._ _So—_

Now only a quarter of the way from the castle, Cyrna flew downwards towards the ground. Before landing, she took one last look at her surroundings, and not seeing anything dangerous, she cautiously landed a safe distance away from the Forbidden forest.

As soon as she landed on the ground, the warmth and safety she had felt from the wind as it wrapped comfortingly around her seemed to fade. Instantly, she was alerted to the tension in the air.

Everything was still.

It was too quiet.

The usual chirps from the birds had stopped, and the rustling sounds of the other magical creatures living in the forest seemed to have disappeared.

She held her breath when the sky suddenly darkened.

A large cloud had covered the sun.

Every muscle in her body tensed, taut with anticipation. Her gut was telling her to flee.

So that was what she did—

—or at least,

That had been what she tried to do.

The instant she had jumped on her broom, ready to take off towards the castle as fast as possible, a loud rustling sound to her left from the direction of the Forbidden forest was heard.

She shot up to the skies reflexively, trying to get as much distance away from herself and the sound when she saw the most beautiful white horse she had ever seen painfully stumble out of the forest.

No, not a horse.

Her face paled as she saw the silver liquid dripping from its flank as the creature dragged itself to where she was hovering in the air.

 _A unicorn_.

It left drips of silver blood; its coat had a faint sheen of sweat as it tiredly lifted its eyes to meet hers, allowing her to catch a view of its horn.

 _“Help me… help me,”_ it pleaded to her before it collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily.

_A unicorn. Book one of Harry Potter…_

From her vantage point in the skies, she watched in horror as a figure slowly approached, standing between her and the castle.

_Quirrell._

The air tensed around her; danger apparent as the forest itself seemed to shy away from the man.

“M-Ms. R-Raine,” stuttered the man with a smile that didn’t seem to quite match the hesitance in his speech. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the light as he looked up to Cyrna. “W-what would a young l-lady like you be d-doing here?”

Remembering the curse Quirrell had placed on Harry’s broom in the book, she decided she was much safer confronting him on the ground. So she landed, dropping to the ground near the body of the injured unicorn.

She felt alert. Her entire body tense as her magic began to pulse and push against the bounds she had created to constrain it. Her eyes sharply took her in her surroundings, mind set only on one thing:

Getting herself out alive.

Cyrna knelt on the ground, and casually brushed the blood-matted mane of the unicorn with a slight tremble that ran through her fingers as she slipped her wand from the wand-holder under her arm to her hand.

She took a deep breath, stepped back, and offered an uncertain smile to the professor.

“I was just flying back to Hogwarts for dinner when I saw the unicorn. I wasn’t sure if it was dangerous or not, so I decided to watch it from above—it’s not everyday you get to see one, after all, sir.”

“O-oh, how s-smart of you M-Ms. Raine.” Quirrell smiled back pleasantly though his eyes held a glint of madness in them. “I h-haven’t c-covered unicorns in l-lecture yet, b-but they can be quite d-dangerous ind-d-deed.”

Quirrell took a step forward, and it took all of her will not to step back. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips and he visibly swallowed as he fixed his eyes on the unicorn.

The unicorn, jolted from the ground, and gave a terrified whinny; its eyes rolling in fright.

 _“Mistress!”_ the voice cried with panic. _“Run!”_

_Mistress?_

Cyrna glanced at the unicorn; terror slowly edging into her veins as she watched Quirrell approach them. There was something strange about Quirrell—and no, not in the sense that Voldemort was attached to the back of his head, but in the madness in his eyes which had never been present when he taught his DADA classes.

The unicorn struggled to stand, but it was too heavily injured to do so.

In his right mind, even with Voldemort present, Cyrna doubted that he would have killed her. After all, he had never done away with any student in the books. He wanted, no, needed, to maintain a low-profile. But right now, Cyrna wouldn’t have bet anything on his ability to make a rational judgement. She doubted he would just let her walk out of this situation and pretend that she didn’t see anything.

Suddenly, the eyes which had been fixated on the unicorn shifted to focus on her. “ _Mssss. Raine_ ,” Quirrell said as he licked his parched lips again. “My Masss-“

He paused, and cocked his head to a side, listening to a voice that only he could hear.

“N-n-no, no, no, no,” he whispered furiously to himself. “C-can’t… No, n-not with Dumbledore…”

Cold. Strangely calm, like she was detached. She knew her heart was pounding away, her body tensing and her hand tightening its grip on the wand to the point where she was surprised that her wand had not snapped.

She wanted to move, but she couldn’t. Her body seemed to be rooted on the spot as she watched with dilated eyes the scene that was happening in front of her. There was no doubt in her mind that they were arguing about her, and she had a sickening idea that they were arguing whether to kill her or not.

Perhaps the only reason why they hadn’t was because she was a child. Perhaps if she acted like one of those ignorant children she had to bear listening to every day… perhaps if she acted like she still hadn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, she could still survive, because there was no way she could beat him in a duel.

There was one more option, Cyrna knew, for escape. She thought of the portkey that hung around her neck. But if she used that, she would not be able to return to Hogwarts in this year. Quirrell would definitely suspect that she knew something or had seen something, and she was pretty sure that if he believed that she had seen something incriminating, he would have no qualms in silencing her. There was also no way she could tell the Headmaster, any professors, or any of her friends about this without drawing Quirrell into the light of suspicion—something that would definitely mess up the storyline a great deal.

 _“Run!”_ the unicorn urged in her mind.

 _Would love to do that,_ Cyrna thought hysterically, _but the consequences that come with that aren’t any that I can accept._

Swallowing and after forcing herself to take in several gulps of air, she forced herself to talk.

“Sir!” her voice shook, and it came out as a whisper. Quirrell paid no attention to her and continued to mutter to himself.

“Sir!” she said louder, her voice obviously trembling. This time Quirrell looked up. His eyes seemed unfocused as they stared in her general direction.

“Yesss?”

His lips twisted into a smile that along with his sibilant speech chilled Cyrna even more. Not really even needing to fake it, she felt tears well up in her eyes from the sheer terror she was in. In it for a penny, in it for a pound, she thought distantly.

“Th-the unicorn is hurt,” she chocked out with slight sniffles. She forced her wide, tear-filled gaze at Quirrell. “And I don’t know how to help it.”

Her eyes continued to well with tears and she sniffled again for good measure. “Sir, can you teach me how to heal it?”

“Hmm, t-teach you, you sssay?” Quirrell’s eyes seemed to spark with intrigue before he gave a laugh that prickled her skin. “No, I-I’m afraid I only know how to d-defend myself against d-dark creatures,” he stammered as he walked closer. “I can t-try to h-heal it though.”

Suddenly, Quirrell whipped out his wand, and on reflex, her adrenalin focussed on just simply surviving, Cyrna grabbed her necklace immediately.

_“Ho—”_

“— _And what_ ,” said a silky voice softly from the shadows behind her, “ _is happening here?_ ”

Cyrna’s heart stuttered to a halt as she paused midway through the word that would have activated her portkey. She turned around, instinctively trusting the owner of the voice to have her back.

She couldn’t help it as her mask fell as she turned away from Quirrell. The fear which warred with the new wave of relief must have been clearly visible in her expression as Snape’s eyes seemed to widen when they met hers.

“Professor Snape”


	16. The Flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I went back to the story, and after I read it over, I ended up rewriting Cyrna's encounter with Quirrell in the last chapter, so please check that part out before reading this chapter!
> 
> Thanks for reading (and for waiting for this chapter--for whoever was waiting lol)!

_“Professor Snape.”_

Cyrna spoke, her voice trembling in relief as she collapsed where she was standing in front of the unicorn and allowed her adrenaline to fade as she listlessly petted the matted silver hair of the unicorn.

The onyx eyes narrowed at her, darting to the injured unicorn behind his student before settling on the figure of Quirrell who had hastily lowered his wand.

“I-it’s not what it seems, S-severus,” Quirrell stuttered out.

Snape’s eyes narrowed as he used his magic to drag the idiot of a professor a distance away from the student. His eyes bored into the seemingly frightened ones of the DADA professor once he had cast _Muffliato_. “I do apologize if I’m wrong, or if my eyes have deceived me” he drawled with a voice dripping with sarcasm, “but _were you pointing your wand at a student?_ ”

An eyebrow rose, unimpressed, as the man stumbled over his words, trying to get the explanation out. Snape’s posture was casual, yet the sharpness in his gaze as he stalked towards Quirrell was anything but.

“I don’t know what you are planning,” he hissed quietly at the quivering man, “but I would recommend you think twice before crossing me.”

“B-but I really was just t-trying to heal the unicorn. You see—”

Snape’s lips curled with distain as he sneered. Dumbledore would not have told him to keep an eye on Quirrell for no reason.

“Y-you see,” Quirrell tried to begin again, looking absolutely petrified, “I o-only really know how to d-defend myself against them, b-but I suddenly remembered r-reading a paper about h-how t-to heal a unicorn. Ms. Raine here, asked me if I could help it, and though I s-said no, I thought I’d try the spell out. I mean,” he blathered on, “it wasn’t l-like there was anything to l-lose in this case for the unicorn. It’s a-already b-bleeding out.”

 _“Really?_ ” Snape said icily.

“W-well—”

Snape roughly yanked on the robes of the DADA professor and watched with a strange sort of glee as he lost his balance and stumbled towards him.

 

*****

 

Cyrna sat on the ground near the unicorn. Despite nearing death with every minute, the unicorn seemed to emit some sort of peace that, now that she was not as terrified, seemed to be working its way into her mind to calm her. The air that had been heavy with darkness seemed to lighten as Snape had dragged Quirrell away from her.

It was relatively safe know, she thought. She closed her eyes, and she forced her breathing to even as she allowed her mind to objectively recount the events which had happened. She was unsure of how long she sat there organizing the information in her mind when the unicorn whinnied weakly in warning.

 _“Mistress!”_ it said.

Cyrna tensed slightly as she opened her eyes. She expected the professors to turn around and look at the unicorn who had spoken, but it seemed as if they both couldn’t hear it, or they had decided to ignore it.

Her eyes slid curiously to meet the unicorn’s gaze, and saw its pained gaze focused completely on her, urging her to flee. She looked back at the scene and saw that Snape seemed to be whispering aggressively towards the DADA professor, causing his countenance to twist with anger for a split second. Anger. Not that crazed glint that she had recognized as madness.

“We should be fine,” she murmured at an attempt to comfort the beast.

“ _No. Not safe,”_ it replied.

Cyrna frowned. Though the air was tense around the two distant figures, it wasn’t anything unexpected. She glanced back questioningly at the unicorn.

 _“Look closely, mistress,_ ” it said weakly.

Her frown deepened as she heeded its advice and focused harder when she saw it. It was hard to explain, the air around them just _looked_ wrong _._

‘ _You can’t see air, Cyrna!’_ she scolded herself as she shook herself from the irrational path her thoughts had started to follow. But the more she focused, the more she thought she could see pale slivers of black strands inch towards Quirrell; however, when she blinked again, they would disappear.

Cautiously, she slowly made her way towards the professors, and stopped when Quirrell’s eyes flicked towards her. The air around her felt filthy as she neared the professors, almost as if some sort of grease was sliding across her skin with every step she made. The black strands seemed more poignant each time she saw them, but they continued to disappear each time she blinked and lost her focus. Taking a steadying breath, Cyrna walked right over to Quirrell and gave a small tug on his sleeve.

It was harder to tear-up now that she was not frightened, but nevertheless, she was able to force a glossy sheen onto her eyes. “Professor, it’s dying,” she teared up a bit more, “The unicorn is dying. Help it, you were going to help it weren’t you?”

Regardless of what was happening, if something as sensitive to magic like the unicorn was warning her of danger, it probably wouldn’t do anyone good if the situation escalated. Cyrna felt the hair on her skin prickle as Quirrell’s gaze sharpened on her, and the spark of anger disappeared to be replaced with curiousity. She watched warily as the black strands seemed to halt in their progression before they started to melt back into ground and disappear into the air around her.

She rubbed her eyes again and then the strands were gone.

“Oh?” Snape drawled archly as his gaze flickered from Quirinus to his student.

“Really, sir,” Cyrna said as sorrowfully as she could. “I was just startled when Professor Quirrell pointed his wand at the unicorn, that’s all.”

She cocked her head to the side as she assessed her two professors with a look of child-like naivety. “You _can_ help the unicorn, right?”

Quirrell’s posture relaxed slightly as he gave a short breath of laughter. “M-my apologies for startling you, Ms. Raine, t-though I have to say, y-you are q-quite commendable in your reaction. I d-do believe you will do very well in DADA if you continue your st-studies in it.”

The lips of the DADA professor twisted into a smile as he gently removed her hand from his sleeve.

Cyrna suppressed her urge to shiver.

“Nevertheless, I-I don’t believe there is anything I-I c-can do for the creature now. It’s a bit too close to d-death,” Quirrell stuttered out regretfully with a quick glance to the stilling unicorn, “s-so, if there is nothing else for me to d-do here, I’d best be back for d-dinner, and you’d b-best hurry b-back too.” Quirrell gave a strange twitch of his hand as a goodbye wave before departing hastily across the field to the castle without a second glance at Snape.

Snape watched the retreating figure with suspicion. There was obviously far more to the situation than she had let on. That terror he had seen for a moment in his student’s eyes before she had glanced away was not something that could be written off as being startled. He doubted she was helping Quirinus in what Dumbledore suspected he was up to, but at the same time, he couldn’t see a reason why she had helped him just now.

He turned to his first-year Slytherin, his eyes darkening with displeasure. He would be watching her carefully to make sure she wouldn’t get into any mischief unbecoming of the Slytherin House.

“I do so hope that your little… meetings with Gryffindor’s golden boy hasn’t placed any foolish thoughts in your mind to aid illicit acts,” he spoke after she had appeared decently cowed by the severity of his gaze and had dropped her little act.

“No, sir.”

“Then watch who you lie to, otherwise expulsion may not be far off,” Snape said icily.

Snape watched as the two large pool of crystal blues shifted to gaze at the ground, and not for the first time, he reminded himself that no matter how strange or suspicious the situation might be, he had no authority to read any student’s mind.

“Yes, sir,” the child answered resignedly before she turned back towards the unicorn when it nudged her outstretched hand. He heard the unicorn nicker weakly and watched as his student met its gaze and began to weep.

 

*****

 

Cyrna’s eyes could not leave that of the creature’s even as her vision misted over with tears. There was just something so inherently _wrong_ about this. To see such purity and innocence fading into death… Her hand twitched when she felt a wet drop of liquid land on it. She felt herself make a quiet noise of questioning.

More drops fell.

Slowly, she reached for her cheeks. A faint brush of her fingers caught the droplets of tears which were trailing down her face.

“Wha—” she murmured, her throat suddenly constricting.

Cyrna felt her eyes water even more. The heart beating in her chest seemed to twist strangely as it gave a sudden throb the longer the unicorn held her gaze. “Why?” she breathed as she gazed at the drops on her fingers.

“One of the side effects of watching something as pure as a unicorn die.”

With great effort, Cyrna pried herself away from the dulling gaze of the unicorn that had seemed to hold her captive and turned to her professor. His black eyes which had seemed inscrutable in daylight were now like fathomless pits as the darkened sky cast shadows over his face. They bore into her own tear-filled eyes, and search as she might, she could not find a hint of sorrow, or really, any other emotion swimming in them.

“Are you not affected by the side effects?” her curious whisper fell from her lips before she could stop herself.

The professor studied her indifferently for a few more moments before his gaze flickered back to the dying unicorn.

“Not unaffected, Ms. Raine. That would be impossible. I just have better control over my emotions,” he said.

Cyrna felt her lips twitch slightly into a small smile at the familiarity of that phrase though her eyes remained misted. She felt compelled to look back at the unicorn.

_“Mistress, can you heal me?”_

Cyrna looked at her hands which were trembling from the unexpected emotion. She reached into her pockets and withdrew a clean handkerchief. Shakily, she began to wipe away the blood and the dirt surrounding the wound to get a better picture of what she was working with.

The more she wiped, the more her heart sank. Its internal organs had been damaged to an extent that she had never learned to fix in her school. Her abilities were not advanced enough to heal the wound.

“Professor, can you help it?”

There was a pause before he spoke. “Would I not have done something if I could?”

“So there’s nothing you can do,” Cyrna said quietly with disbelieving laughter. _What of the time you prolonged the Headmaster’s life? The time you saved Arthur Weasley? What of your own creation, Vulnera Sanetur?_

_Aren’t you supposed to be a prodigy? Aren’t you supposed to be able to heal something as small as this wound?_

Snape must have heard the skepticism in her laughter for when he spoke again, his voice was frigid. “Now if you’ve looked your full on the creature and have finished dawdling around, it would be much obliged if we could return to the Great Hall sometime before dinner.”

Cyrna winced slightly at his tone, though she felt a spark of irritation race through her at his words. How could he just leave the unicorn to die by itself?

 _Wait._ Cyrna frowned. _Why am I wasting my time to watch it die? What could I possibly gain from doing this?_ Try as she might, she couldn’t think of an answer, but her body seemed rooted to the spot. She felt a strange sense of something, perhaps responsibility, compelling her to stay.

“I am going to stay until it passes… sir.”

“If you want to destroy your innocence and watch a unicorn die, do as you will,” Snape said stiffly, “but do not dare stay out pass curfew.”

She heard the abrupt swishing of cloth accompanied by the sounds of footsteps as the professor left.

Refocusing her attention on the unicorn, she slowly removed her trembling hands from the wound. She clenched her hands in a fist and vaguely noted how cold they had become. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the unicorn as the tears continued to fall.

The unicorn nickered gently. _“It is not your fault, mistress. Perhaps, my time has just ran to its end.”_

“Snape, he should have… should have been able to help,” Cyrna said. “I mean he’s a Potions Master! He must have had some sort of potion on him that would at least buy you some time!”

The unicorn seemed to breath a sigh filled with sorrow. “ _That man… his magic is tainted with a sort of evil that would harm rather than heal me._ ”

Her eyes widened. _The Dark Mark_. “So he really couldn’t have helped you…” she murmured feeling slightly ashamed for her lack of faith in her Head of House.

Cyrna sat in silence for the rest of the time, keeping the unicorn company as its breathing slowed.

She thought it had died when she suddenly heard a quiet whisper, “ _Mistress, can you carry my soul back to my family?”_

She furrowed her eyebrows, perplexed. Still, she was not going to say “no”, even if it was an empty promise.

“Of course,” she replied softly. Then she remembered something else. “Say, why do you call me ‘mistress’?”

Cyrna didn’t know how much time had passed as she waited in silence for its answer, for its death—she wasn’t too sure what she was waiting for.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Time seemed terribly insignificant as she stoically watched the last drop of blood empty from the unicorn and its gaze turn dull and lifeless. Cyrna sighed as her tears began to slow and prepared to return to the castle when a sudden gust of wind arose, wrapping around her comfortingly just as the last drop of blood bled from the unicorn and vanished, along with the body, with a bright flash of light.

Cyrna winced as she shielded her eyes.

 _“We call you mistress because you are our mistress,”_ a voice echoed quietly before vanishing along with the wind.

“What—” Cyrna carefully blinked open her eyes to see a small silver flower glowing softly in the evening sky. As if it wasn’t her own, her hand reached steadily for the flower and plucked it from the ground. She cradled it gently in her palms and allowed one last tear to fall.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, that I couldn’t help you,” she whispered to the empty air.

And for the first time in a long while, Cyrna felt true regret colour her words.

 

*****

 

Cyrna didn’t see Harry or Ron much at all outside of their shared Potions and Flying classes. It wasn’t purposeful, it wasn’t that they had a disagreement—they just didn’t have time to meet. Between his Quidditch practices and his homework, Harry found himself constantly in the training grounds or in his dormitory with Ron. Cyrna on the other hand, was kept primarily occupied by library where she began digging deeper into books about Transfigurations and about the hypothetical souls of magical creatures. In frequenting the library so often, she did end up seeing Hermione almost every day.

Sometimes they would sit together, other times, Cyrna would just nod a greeting and leave for a more secluded corner of the library. She didn’t mind sitting with Hermione, it was just that whenever she did, she would receive curious stares from the students around them as well as from Hermione herself—all of which was incredibly distracting.

Today was one of those days.

Hermione was busy chattering at a Hufflepuff who seemed too kind to tell her she was not interested in knowing the six different theoretical states the cure of boils went through during the potion-making process, so Cyrna just swept away towards her favourite corner of the library. Noticing that her spot was empty as usual, she sat down and pulled out a small wooden box containing the strange silver glowing flower that she had plucked on the night the unicorn had died.

She hadn’t forgotten her promise to the unicorn, and though she would like to keep it, she was fairly confused about how she could carry its soul back to its family. Never mind not knowing where the rest of the unicorns were living, how was she supposed to find its soul?

If she had still been in her past world, she might have scoffed at the thought of a soul. So perhaps she had never fully believed that one’s emotions or conscience was just the outcome of a pathway of chemical signals, but neither had she thought or placed much weight into something as abstract as a soul or spirit. However, from what she read in the books, there were many events that would support the existence of souls.

Her corner of the library was usually dead silent. No one really ever studied there because it was so far from the entrance and the lighting was poor. The only light came from several small arched windows high up on the walls of the room. So, when Cyrna heard footsteps, she was surprised, and even more so when she realized that they were heading directly towards her.

Quickly, she shut the lid on her flower and angled her body so that she could see who it was.

“Hello, Cyrna,” Hermione said with an uncharacteristic sort of nervousness.

Cyrna tilted her head slight, intrigued.

“Hey,” Cyrna replied with a small smile, “what brings you here?”

“Oh-um.” Hermione shifted nervously. “D-doyouwanttostudytogether?”

Cyrna blinked. _What did she say?_

“Sorry?” Cyrna asked.

“It’sokayifyoudon’twantto,but—”

“Hermione,” Cyrna interjected. She resisted the urge to laugh. “Slow down.”

“Oh,” she flushed slightly with embarrassment, “I just wanted to ask if you would like to study together, I mean, you would sometimes just sit with me and study by yourself, and I hear you were really smart, so I was wondering if you would be okay if—”

“Okay.” Cyrna smiled at the stunned expression Hermione had. “I assume you wanted to orally run through the concepts together?”

“Yes!” Hermione said with relief that she wouldn’t have to further explain. She sat down on the desk beside Cyrna’s and took out her textbooks when she noticed a small, unassuming wooden box.

Hermione began running through the concepts with Cyrna, and found to her delight, that what she said was not lost on the other girl, and if anything, it seemed as if Cyrna understood the concepts and would ask her questions that prompted her to think about parts of the topics that she had not considered. Slowly, she began to carefully ease her way into her favourite subjects of History and Charms. Cyrna seemed to enjoy discussing Charms as much as she did Transfigurations and Potions, but when it came to History, Hermione could tell that she really had no interest. Still, Cyrna listened attentively to her ramblings and, occasionally, she noted a fond sort of amused gleam when she talked.

Eventually, they settled down into a comfortable silence where Hermione was re-writing parts of her class notes and Cyrna, she noted, was skimming through a huge stack of herbology books. Hermione couldn’t help but glance curiously at the wooden box again.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

Cyrna stopped what she was doing and stared at her for a moment before a sudden spark of light lit her eyes.

“Of course, why didn’t I think of it before?” Cyrna muttered to herself. She opened the box, and Hermione gasped quietly in surprise.

“It’s beautiful!” Hermione exclaimed when she saw the small glowing flower.

Cyrna made a noise of agreement though a shadow seemed to cross her face for a moment as she stared at the flower.

“Do you recognize it?”

Hermione stared at the flower again. Something niggled at the back of her mind.

“I think I have read about it before…” Hermione said uncertainly.

“Oh? Where?” Cyrna asked curiously.

She remembered that the book had pages which had been yellowed over time, with several tea stains on the page. The edges of the book had been frayed and some pages had been ripped.

“It was a really old book that I found in the History section of the library.”

“History…” Cyrna frowned thoughtfully. _Maybe that’s why I couldn’t find it._

The flower seemed important to Cyrna, Hermione thought, as she saw her gaze at the flower.

Perhaps Cyrna sensed her curious glance because she looked up with a small smile. “I made a promise I would like to keep, Hermione. And I thought that perhaps this flower would offer me a clue.”

If anything, Hermione felt even more curious. About the promise, yes, though she resisted from prying, but also about the Slytherin. Everyone she had spoken to in her house, with the exception of Harry, seemed to believe the house was practically evil incarnate. The Hufflepuffs she had spoken to had been wary of the house, though they didn’t say anything bad about them, and the Ravenclaws had just given her the history and the attributes the House stood for when she asked about it—a completely objective answer.

As for her, she rather liked Cyrna. She knew that Harry was fond of her too, though Ron seemed to shiver slightly in fear and take on a slight look of confusion when her name was mentioned. Besides, someone who kept her promises couldn’t be as bad as the others thought of her to be. If she thought about it on simpler terms, she knew that she loved being around the Slytherin. For some reason, she couldn’t seem to get along with her House, especially Ron. The Hufflepuffs never seemed to be too interested in what she was saying, and the Ravenclaws she had spoken to seemed to treat gaining knowledge as a competition. Cyrna… she listened. So perhaps it may have been out of politeness, but there had been no judgement in her eyes as she had rambled on.

“I can help you find the book,” Hermione said.

Cyrna felt her eyes narrow slightly, but then she reminded herself that she was dealing with a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin. If she was offering help, she wasn’t about to decline.

“Really! I’d appreciate your help so much!” Cyrna grinned. “Thanks Hermione!”

“Ah—” Hermione blushed slightly. “T-That’s what friends are for, right?” she stammered out quickly before she quickly packed her bag and rushed out of the library.

Cyrna blinked slowly as her corner of the library returned to silence. _Friends_ … _I seem to be picking up a lot of those… first Harry, Daphne, now her._ She still wasn’t too sure if she was comfortable with the idea, especially with the Gryffindors. Allies, she could understand, but friends? Not as much. The emotional support they likely wanted from her was something she doubted she would ever be able to give, yet…

_Unbeknownst to her, Cyrna’s lips curved into a soft smile as she tapped her quill against her lips in thought. She remembered experiencing this simple sort of friendship as a child, then she had grown up and friendship seemed to become another term for a mutually beneficial relationship of the ‘you help me, I help you’ sort._

Yet… as she thought of the time she had spent with her friends at Hogwarts, she couldn’t quite seem to find the displeasure that had once accompanied that term.


End file.
